


Beauty Behind The Madness

by queenrhaenyra



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Aunt/Nephew Incest, Canon-Typical Violence, Captive Daenerys Targaryen, Dark Jon Snow, Dark Jonerys, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Dragons and magic later on, Eventual Dark Daenerys, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hate Sex, Jon is...very dark, Just dark romance in general, King Jon Snow, Minor Daenerys Targaryen/Gendry Waters, Minor Jon Snow/Margaery Tyrell, Not Canon Compliant, Not too kind for Stark stans, Oral Sex, Targaryen Restoration, can’t believe I forgot to mention there’s also angst, does this count as Stockholm Syndrome?, idk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:35:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 86,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21682336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenrhaenyra/pseuds/queenrhaenyra
Summary: "We'll kill him, Dany. We'll get out of here but first we'lldestroyhim," he promised. His voice was filled with anger and determination.Daenerys nodded, but the sick and dangerous part was she wasn't sure she wanted to escape anymore. She wasn't sure she wanted to harm him.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 1162
Kudos: 1373





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hiiii, just a few things before you start reading this:
> 
> \- I've made it clear in the tags that Jon is rather dark (and cruel) in this. But by dark, I don't mean he's a rapist or some weird shit like that lol. This is *not* a revenge story for either Jon or Dany, it's just a dark smutty romance because who doesn't like that? (JK, some people don't and that's alright) So once again, Jon isn't exactly the good guy but there's no abuse or anything as such in this story, for either Jon or Dany. By dark I mean he got those mad/dark Targ genes. Cause it's hot. xo
> 
> \- Daenerys is captive in this and this is made clear in the tags as well. While their relationship is 100% consensual that may still not be your thing, totally understandable, but please don't bitch about it. The tags couldn't be clearer. hate to say it but ᵈᵒⁿ'ᵗ ˡᶦᵏᵉ ᵈᵒⁿ'ᵗ ʳᵉᵃᵈ

**i. there are no heroes**

Daenerys had never seen her mother beg in her life before that moment. It was not a pretty sight.

“There is a misunderstanding,” the old woman sobbed, words she had probably been rehearsing for a long time now, dreading this day, “I beg you to understand, she is ready to renounce the name if that is what you wish. Just ask it of her, please.”

Daenerys was frozen in place, not knowing what to say, not fully comprehending how mere minutes ago they were having dinner and talking about their day, laughing and having a good time like they did every night, not knowing that their peace and lives would forever be ruined in the next moments. It happened so fast that her mind was still catching up.

Aegon Targaryen—or, Jon—was the most beautiful man she’d ever laid her eyes upon. The songs about him were right. His eyes were a deep, dark grey and his hair was as black as midnight, dark locks held back by a leather band. He had a sharp face, he kept his beard trimmed and his mouth seemed to be permanently curled in a cruel smirk.

He was also the scariest man she’d ever had the displeasure of seeing. Even being in the same room as him, breathing the same air, was disorienting.

Her mother was on her knees, tears soaking her entire face, yet Daenerys had yet to see a flicker of sympathy on Jon's face. Or any emotion, for that matter. “Oh, grandmother,” he sighed, his tone almost mocking, “I do not wish to make you cry so. What would Rhaegar say?”

Rhaella flinched at the mention of her deceased son’s name. But she resumed begging. “Don’t take her,” she said, over and over, “Daenerys is all I have left.”

“Let me ask you something, do you think I don’t know what people think of me?” Aegon asked, clicking his tongue. “What they call me behind my back? Ruthless, evil, cruel, the Mad King’s blood…what are some other words, Gendry?”

He turned his attention to the man standing next to him, the presumed Gendry. The young boy swallowed before unsurely offering, “Uh…heartless.”

Jon nodded. “Ah, yes. My favourite. Do you think I don’t know how many rebellions have risen and fallen against me? How many wish to see me die, how many are willing to die to kill me?” For the first time since he’d barged into her house with his guards and men, threatening to take her away as his hostage, King Aegon turned to look at Daenerys. “And who better than another Targaryen, the good one, for the rebellions to follow?”

“I’m not part of any rebellion,” Daenerys spoke, forcing herself to be brave. But she felt anything but brave. Her arms were shaking, her knees felt like they would give out if the wind even so much as brushed against them. “You are my King.”

He smiled. It was a strange thing because smiling didn’t suit him. It almost made him look kind, and that was the most deceiving thing ever. When he took a step forward, Daenerys’ breath hitched in her throat. Gooseflesh rose on her arms as he kept walking, stopping only a foot away from her. She looked down at her boots. He brought a hand to her face, the length of his finger brushing against her cheek. She had to repress a shiver of disgust. “You have the Targaryen traits,” he murmured as if entranced, “silver hair, purple eyes. They’d love you.”

She shook her head. “You’re wrong. No one loves me, no one would follow me. I’m not a Queen, I’m far from being anything close to the symbol of a rebellion,” she said, desperate, frightened.

He dropped his hand, then sighed as he walked back to the entrance. “I didn’t come here expecting you to hand over your daughter to me. But I also didn’t expect either of you to be stupid enough to think a few tears will change my mind. This is not a kidnapping. Daenerys will be living in a castle. I’m changing her life for the better.”

The silver-haired princess, who never was a princess, turned to look at her sobbing mother. Poor Rhaella, she thought to herself, she’d done all of this to protect me. Only for it to end like this.

A few weeks before she was born, when Daenerys’ father the Mad King’s last thread of sanity snapped and he made the heart-stopping decision to burn down the entire city of King’s Landing with wildfire to punish innocent men and women for a war they had no part in, a pregnant Rhaella had ran off to Dragonstone so she could escape her husband’s fury and save her unborn child.

It was her eldest son, Rhaegar’s idea. Rhaegar remained at King’s Landing, believing that he could put an end to this folly and reason with his father. Much to his dismay, there was no reasoning with Aerys. He had made up his mind and, stupidly enough, claimed that the fire spoke to him—and told him that the world had to be cleansed. Rhaegar successfully stopped his father from committing the atrocity he was set to by putting a knife in his heart while they were alone in the Throne Room, everyone else outside trying to flee before Aerys’ wrath could murder them.

For a moment, as Rhaegar stood next to his father’s corpse, peace was finally here. Rhaegar thought he could be the future King Westeros needed, a man who was both loved and respected throughout the Seven Kingdoms. However, this relief was short-lived. One of Aerys’ guards came in, unsuspected by him, and in turn, killed Prince Rhaegar in a surprise attack.

Jaime Lannister had been planning this for years now. He wished to kill Aerys, though, but Rhaegar had already taken care of that. He took Lyanna Stark, Rhaegar’s wife, captive and claimed that it was Aerys who’d slaughtered both his son and his daughter-in-law. Jaime twisted the story to paint himself as the hero, retelling the false tale of how he’d stepped in at the last minute and put an end to Aerys’ madness.

“You’re free,” he chanted to the people who had just believed they were about to be murdered. “No more madness!”

To honour him and his bravery, a council was formed to decide on the fate of the continent and the next step was voted easily by lords and ladies who’d suffered enough under Aerys’ dark reign: Jaime should rule the Seven Kingdoms until Rhaella’s daughter would be of age. Even Rhaella agreed, truly believing Jaime was the hero everyone was claiming him to be. She didn’t think she had the power to rule and trusted Jaime enough to do it.

And obviously, there was no one better.

Little did they know that Rhaegar’s wife Lyanna had given birth to a son in the prison cell Jaime had thrown her in. The real heir to the Throne was locked in that tower, as his mother bled to death.

Jaime was relieved when Jon was born with dark hair and dark eyes. He’d told the secret to only one man, someone he trusted with his whole life. His brother, Tyrion Lannister. Tyrion and Jaime took Rhaegar’s son to an orphanage and claimed his name was Jon, and that he was just a bastard.

As time passed, Jaime became more and more consumed with power. Daenerys and Jon grew up. Worlds away from one another, not knowing the other existed. As Daenerys neared the age of thirteen, Jaime began to realise that if he didn’t put an end to her life, he would no longer be King.

Tyrion was against the idea of sending assassins to Dragonstone and quickly began to realise his brother was going insane, just like Aerys had. He did the next best thing he thought he could do—he betrayed Jaime, went to the orphanage, sat down with a young Jon, then told him the whole truth. Before Lyanna died, she had managed to write a letter. Tyrion saved that letter and after all those years, finally gave it to Jon.

To this day, no one knew what was in that letter, but it was enough to ignite a flame in Jon’s heart, a flame that would destroy the Seven Kingdoms. The only thing he admitted was that his mother wrote that his name was Aegon. From that day on, Jon hated being called Jon. Later when he became King, he'd cut out the tongue of a man who called him by that name. 

Driven by vengeance and hate, Jon and Tyrion plotted about how to put him back on the Throne before Jaime could commit any heinous act. There were still Targaryen loyalists around, people who would do anything to serve Rhaegar’s son, especially if they knew the nature of the Prince’s death and how he was the one who saved King’s Landing, not Jaime. Tyrion sent Jon to be trained in sword-fighting and made sure he was well-educated in politics.

He was preparing him to be the King Westeros needed, to take his place as the rightful heir and get rid of Jaime, whom Tyrion no longer deemed proper for Westeros.

When the time arrived, Tyrion spread the truth. A war erupted across the country, Jon on one side coming to claim his birthright and Jaime on the other, hiding behind pretences and lies. People saw through them easily and turned against him in favour of the legitimate heir.

Jon won the war.

Tyrion exhaled in relief when Jon ran his sword through Jaime’s heart, putting an end to his reign filled with lies.

“It’s finally over,” the dwarf cried, even if he was heartbroken to see his brother's lifeless body fall to the ground, “all the cruelty he wished to inflict upon us…you put an end to it all.”

“It’s not over yet,” Jon said. Then turned to Tyrion with a dark look. “Seize him,” he ordered his guards.

“What?”

“You’re still a Lannister,” Jon offered as an explanation. “You’re all the same.”

“What are you talking about? I’m with you. I made you King!” His eyes widened in realisation. "I thought you were different. I thought you were the good one."

“Bring me his head,” Jon instructed and didn’t flinch as Tyrion screamed for his life.

The world was free of Jaime, but now they had Jon to deal with.

Jaime was only obsessed with the power, but Jon…he loved the thrill that came with obtaining that power. He spent a good portion of his life without power and glory, he was nobody as a child, and once he sat on that Throne that day, amidst the blood and chaos, he realised one thing: he would never be nobody again.

He promised his grandmother that if she ever stepped into King’s Landing, he would have her and her daughter's heads chopped off.

Initially, people loved the idea of Rhaegar having a surviving son. They followed him out of the love they bore their deceased King Who Never Was. But as the years passed and it became clearer that Jon was perhaps as destructive as his grandfather, the people’s love morphed into fear. Still, they had no choice but to follow him.

Jon had no interest in sharing the Throne. He was the last Targaryen—and made sure everyone addressed him as such. Not the aunt or grandmother he never knew and didn’t care to know.

When Daenerys learned the truth about Jon, she found that she didn’t care. She didn’t care for the Throne or for the power he loved so much. She had a happy childhood on Dragonstone, was sheltered from all the backstabbing politics and power plays that happened in King’s Landing. She was in her safe, happy bubble with her mother and had no intentions of ever getting involved in her nephew’s life.

Until today.

“We like it here,” Rhaella said hurried, “we like our little house, we don’t want to bother anyone.”

“You can stay here. I only want your daughter,” he said casually.

“But why? What has she done?” Her voice raised and Daenerys panicked.

“Daenerys, you might want to ask her to stop talking.” Jon sighed regretfully. “I wouldn’t want to get mad, I don’t believe any of us would like that.”

“Mother,” Daenerys said sadly, “it’s too late. Get up. It’s fine.”

She went to hug her mother, dragging her frail form from the floor and into her arms. She was fragile, broken. Daenerys had no words to make her feel better. Any reassurance she had would be a lie, for she was scared herself, her heart pounding in her chest. “I’ll be okay,” she whispered into her mother’s hair. But in the back of her head, a small voice said, it’s over.

She could feel his eyes on them as they embraced each other. “That’s good enough of a goodbye,” he declared, “Guards, take her.”

Daenerys had to be strong for both herself and her mother. She let the men grab her by the arms, walking her out. The only time a tear slipped out of her eye was when she took the last step out of her house and her mother’s sob broke through her heart like a whip across her skin.

Jon’s companion, Gendry, was the only person who kept checking on her during the voyage. During the journey at sea, during their horse rides…he remained close to her, kept an eye on her.

She loathed it.

“Did he ask you to keep watching over me?” she asked eventually, as they neared the castle.

They were in a carriage, and he was seated across from her with his gaze fixed on her face.

“What?”

“The King,” she clarified and cringed at how groggy she sounded to her own ears. Like she hadn’t eaten nor drank in years. “Has he asked you to keep an eye on me? It’s not like I can escape.”

There was a pause. “No. He did no such thing.”

“Then why do you do it?” It came out harsher than intended.

Gendry blinked but didn’t answer. She was too tired to look for a fight so she didn’t force the issue.

He never stopped watching her.

Jon lied. He didn’t intend to keep her with him. She was sent into a house near the castle, where the maids and whores lived. It was a disgusting place. Her room reeked when she stepped in. The odour mixed with her exhaustion was so bad it made her want to cry. She wanted to be home, in the house with the red door, and she wished to smell lemons…not this.

Gendry threw in her luggage, which she was only given three minutes to pack. Daenerys was only able to get some clothes in—and her mother’s ring. “You should get some sleep,” Gendry said.

“No,” a new voice said.

The deep timbre was soon becoming familiar to Daenerys. Her body reacted instinctually, filling with dread. She looked behind Gendry and in Aegon came. He was dressed in all black and she thought, it’s clearly his colour. She hadn’t seen him since they left Dragonstone and still, this felt too soon. Even if she never saw him again it would be a time too many that she looked upon his flawless face.

Gendry bowed wordlessly.

“No, she should eat first,” the King clarified his previous statement.

“Yes, Your Grace. She hasn’t eaten or drank a thing the whole journey here.”

Daenerys could feel the effects of that now. Her stomach felt like it ate itself, the hollowness inside of her so deep that she felt nauseous, even when doing something as simple as taking a breath. She didn’t know why she was forcing herself to reject everything. None of this would bring her back home.

Aegon flicked his wrist. “Leave us.”

Gendry was out the next second.

Daenerys’ chest rose and fell with deep, calming breaths as she felt the King shuffle closer. “Not eating will not bring you back to your mother. Not eating will not kill you. I’ll force you to eat, and it won’t end prettily.” He spoke calmly as if he had all the time in the world. And perhaps he did. This was her life now—forever. She was his prisoner, his pet. His to order around.

She just had to make sure, “Will anything happen to my mother?”

“No.” He sounded serious. “And nothing will happen to you either.”

She didn’t believe him. He could tell. “Why would I harm my aunt?” he asked, the last word being uttered with something akin to amusement.

Daenerys didn’t find it funny. “You have a reputation of getting rid of people that you don’t like,” she blurted before she could stop herself. But it was true. Over the years, Jon had kept many people prisoners. He’d executed just as many, for trivial things that could’ve been solved if he bothered. But that was not who he was, he didn’t want the world to respect him. Jon wanted fear. And he got it.

Jon chuckled. The sound was as sinister as the silence at a cemetery. “Who says I don’t like you?” He circled her, observing her. Daenerys kept staring at the floor. “Kings fall like flies around here. From Aerys to Rhaegar to Jaime…they come and go so fast. I just want to make sure that never happens to me. And you’re the only possible threat in my way.”

“I’m not in your way,” she said tiredly. And it was true. Her whole life, she never intended to set foot in King’s Landing. Ironically, he was the one that brought her here.

“Well, now I can keep an eye on you.”

“That’s all you’ll do to me?” She feared the answer.

“I will not hurt you,” he said just as quietly, and Daenerys blamed her almost wanting to believe him on how bloody exhausted she was. And starving and thirsty. He stepped in front of her, waited until she lifted her eyes to him. He smiled ominously. “As long as you don’t give me a reason to.”


	2. Chapter 2

**ii. wake the dragon**

That night, Daenerys tried to sleep. She was so tired and weak that it barely took her two minutes to fall into a deep slumber, not caring that the bed was rather uncomfortable nor that she could _hear_ insects in the room. She needed to rest.

That didn’t last long, however. More precisely, her mind wouldn’t let her sleep peacefully. The nightmares ranged from watching her mother sob as she was taken away to something as horrifying as watching her mother get slaughtered right in front of her very eyes while there was nothing she could do. Each time the sword swung down to cut her head off, Daenerys awoke with a strained gasp, her forehead and chest drenched in sweat. It happened four times—so she gave up trying to go back to sleep after that.

 _It’s not real, Rhaella is safe,_ she told herself repeatedly, even if she had no proof that she truly was alright, she decided to take a walk and clear her head. She wasn’t certain how useful that would be but she knew that she couldn’t stay in this room any longer. Every time her eyes snapped open it was as if the walls had closed up a bit on her. It was beginning to get suffocating in here and she knew she had to get out for her own sanity.

She looked out the window before going out and saw that the moon shone brightly in a starless sky. _Mother has looked up to the same moon before going to sleep,_ she thought to herself, a silly thought that she found deep comfort in.

Daenerys slipped out of her bedchamber on her tiptoes. She wasn’t sure why she was being so discreet. It was late at night, no one was up and if they didn’t want her to get out of the room, they would’ve locked her in. So, she was allowed to wander around the house, wasn’t she?

She hadn’t been outside at all ever since she was brought in. She didn’t know why. The moment the King left her, all Daenerys did was sit by the window in her chambers and cry. She’d been holding back her tears for _days_ now. She refused to cry in front of her mother, for she knew if she showed how frightened she was Rhaella’s heart would break even more if that was possible, and she refused to cry on the boat and during the horse ride—because Jon’s men didn’t deserve to see her at her lowest point.

But gods did she need to let it out. She wasn’t as strong as she pretended to be. She was scared, tired and heartbroken. She missed her home, she missed her mother and Dragonstone. The beaches, her friends on the island, her trips to the market. She hated everything about King’s Landing—the people were too loud, the streets smelled of ash and, disturbingly enough, blood, and she hated seeing the three-headed dragon flags all across the country. She’d grown up disassociating herself with her Targaryen heritage. She didn’t care for that family, didn’t care about representing it. The Targaryens were mostly terrible people. Her father, other than being a madman, abused and raped her mother until she wished to kill herself. And she grew up knowing that Aegon was feared across the continent and would kill both her mother and her without blinking if he had to.

So, Daenerys cried. She would’ve prayed if only she still believed in gods. _If there are gods,_ she thought, _then they are cruel, so why would they listen to me?_

She closed the door behind her and the _click_ it made as it shut sounded so loud, only because everywhere else was so quiet. Even her footsteps on the wooden floor made thudding noises. Daenerys clasped her hands together, fiddling with her fingers as she blindly made her way down a very dark, very long hallway. There were rooms on either side, all locked. Only she was awake at such a time and that didn’t surprise her.

Maybe with time, she would get used to this place. Maybe soon, she wouldn’t wake up anymore. Even if she only said the words in her head, she felt like she was lying.

Daenerys turned down the hallway, taking a path to the left which led her to another corridor, same as before, and she began to wonder how she would find her way back to her bedchamber if all of them resembled each other like this. And it was so dark, the only source of light being the moon and since there weren’t many windows that didn’t really help.

At some point, she heard a sound. Curiously, Daenerys pulled herself closer to the wall to her right. The sound got louder. It was _grunting._ Daenerys frowned, pushing her ear against the cold wall. The grunts and moans grew louder—clearly coming from two separate people. When she understood what was happening inside, her eyes grew wide and she stepped back only to collide against something.

With a gasp, she whirled around and at the same time, something clasped her wrists. Someone.

“Who the fuck are you?” A female voice asked.

Daenerys blinked twice, rapidly. She couldn’t see her face very well but the dark-coloured woman didn’t seem happy. “Huh?” she repeated, her grip on Daenerys’ hands tightening.

The silver-haired girl winced. “I-I’m Daenerys.” _So much for acting brave, stuttering like a fool._

There was a pause. “Targaryen?”

She wished she could say no to that. “Yes.”

“Come with me.”

She wasn’t left with many choices. Dragged by the woman, Daenerys was forced to walk as fast as she did. The woman opened a door and shoved her inside. Before Daenerys could understand what was happening, she lit a candle. At last, there was light.

The woman in question was young. Around Daenerys’ age. She was gorgeous, a dark-eyed beauty with plump lips, a sharp face and tantalising eyes. She glared at Daenerys. “You’re Aerys’ daughter,” she said, then went on to light more candles. “The one who ran to Dragonstone.”

The room was as bright as day when she was finished and Daenerys realised that her bedchamber resembled hers, except it was better-decorated. Like someone actually lived here. “Technically that was my mother but yes,” Daenerys answered quietly.

“You’re King Aegon’s prisoner,” she said.

“Yes,” Daenerys replied once more.

“I can officially say I’ve had a princess in my room,” the girl said, then cracked a smile at Daenerys. “I’m Missandei.”

“Daenerys.”

“I know.”

“I’m not really a princess,” Daenerys found herself saying.

Missandei hummed. “Yes, _he_ made sure of that, didn’t he? But you’re still one by blood.”

“I suppose,” Daenerys said unsurely. Her mother told her to forget about even that. She thought that if they completely let go of the Targaryen name, Aegon would also let go of them. That didn’t work out so well, now, did it?

“You shouldn’t be out of your room so late at night,” Missandei said.

“The King never asked me to stay locked up.”

“I’m not asking you that either. But at night? Not the most advisable thing to do. Men come in here…in hopes of finding women to sleep with, and look at _you_!” Missandei exclaimed, her eyes raking over Daenerys’ body. Perhaps if a man did this she’d be repulsed, but she wasn’t disgusted with the girl’s gaze.

“I’m not a…,” she trailed off, glancing at her face.

“A whore,” she finished with a quirk of her brow. She didn’t sound offended. “You can say it. It’s not a bad word in here.”

“Oh.”

“And I’m not one either. I’m a maid but I’m friends with the whores, they’re not as bad as you think.”

“I don’t think they’re bad.”

Missandei smiled. “I was afraid of them when I came here too.”

“I’m not afraid,” Daenerys felt the need to let her know. The strong prey on the weak, she knew that, and she didn’t want to be the weak.

The woman hummed appreciatively. “Good. Even if you are, you’ll learn to be strong around here. We all have to.” She tilted her head to the side, observing Daenerys. “Have you eaten anything?”

“No,” Daenerys allowed herself the truth. “I’m starving.”

Missandei chuckled. “I can tell,” she said. “Well, I don’t have much but…,” she left the sentence open-ended as she stood, going over to a table placed in a corner of the room. “An apple?” she asked Daenerys.

The princess was so hungry she would accept a roach. Nodding frantically, she grabbed the apple and took a bite. It wasn’t even that sweet, but it felt so good on her tongue, like melting honey.

Missandei watched her as she eagerly ate the fruit. “Tell me, pretty, how much of King’s Landing have you seen?”

“Not much,” Daenerys admitted, still chewing. “I’ve never been here before.”

“Well, it’s a stinky shithole. And there’s always a chance a war is coming and we might all die,” Missandei deadpanned, then grinned, “but if you look past that, it’s quite great. Do you want a tour?”

Daenerys licked her lips, shyly looking around. “You want to give me a tour?”

“Yes.”

“I would like that.”

“So would I.” Missandei’s eyes were warm, and it reminded her of the sand at the beaches back home. “I believe we’ll be good friends, Princess.”

* * *

The next morning, Daenerys wasn’t exactly excited to get out of bed. But she dreaded it less than she did the previous day. Because she made a friend—or at least hoped she did. And found herself sleeping better as she tried to picture Missandei’s sweet smile whenever Aegon’s face popped up in her head.

She was surprised to find Missandei knocking at her door. In the daylight, she was even prettier. “When was the last time you took a bath?” she asked Daenerys.

The latter looked down at herself. Her pale blue dress had dirt on it, much to her embarrassment. And the bad smell she woke up to this morning was coming from _her._ “Two days ago,” she murmured the humiliating truth.

“Well, get a dress and we shall fix this,” Missandei commanded.

They all took showers in the same place. As a woman left the room Missandei was bringing her into with her wet hair and a towel wrapped around her, Daenerys found herself hesitant to go in. “Don’t worry, since it’s your first time, I’ll get everyone to step out,” Missandei assured her.

They waited for the other girls to come out and once the bathing room was empty, Missandei stood by the door. “Go ahead, I’ll guard the door,” she told Daenerys, “but be quick. Some of these women get grumpy in the morning.”

It was weird to take a shower in front of a stranger. _But it could be worse,_ she told herself. She went into one of the stalls and used the jug and bucket of water to clean herself up. The water wasn’t even hot—she put on her new dress while shivering.

“Now you almost look good enough to be a Targaryen princess,” Missandei jested when she stepped out.

Daenerys knew she didn’t mean it in a bad way. But she needed her to know how badly she hated being reminded of who she was. Licking her lips, she requested, “could you…not call me that?”

Missandei frowned. “A princess or a Targaryen?”

“Both.”

Her face softened. “Daenerys, then?”

“Yes,” her new friend shyly replied, “Daenerys is good.”

* * *

Their plan…didn’t go accordingly.

Missandei wanted to take Daenerys to the market so they could buy food for lunch. She would use this as an excuse to show her around. But when they made it to the front door, there were two guards posted there.

“I’ve never seen them before,” Missandei muttered.

Daenerys slowed down, deciding to stay behind her.

One of the men glanced at Daenerys. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Missandei replied for her. “She’s coming with me to town.”

The two men exchanged a look, then chuckled. “She’s not going anywhere,” the same fat, bald man said. “King’s orders.”

Daenerys’ shoulders fell immediately. Missandei was up for a fight, however. “Why not?” she asked.

“Missandei,” Daenerys said, Aegon’s face suddenly flashing in her mind. She did not wish to anger him. “It’s fine.”

“She’s with me, we’re not stupid enough to do, what? Run away?” Missandei asked the guards, ignoring Daenerys.

“Do you want us to bring you to His Grace so you can discuss this with him?” The other guard grumbled.

That shut the girl up. She turned to Daenerys, a regretful furrow in her brows. “I’m sorry,” she told her quietly.

“It’s fine.” Daenerys even forced out a smile, if only it could end this tension-filled conversation before it worsened. “Next time.”

The way Missandei softly exhaled was clear to both of them that they knew there wouldn’t be a next time either. "Do you want me to buy you anything?"

Daenerys chewed on her bottom lip. "Are there lemons here?"

"Lemons? Sure. But why?"

"I make good lemon cakes," Daenerys explained.

She chuckled. "Lemons it is, then." She turned around. “Let me pass,” Missandei told the guards, tone curt.

They pushed the door open for her. Daenerys watched as she disappeared into the sunlight and then she was alone again. Sighing to herself, she turned on her heels, ready to return to her bedchambers. She cried enough the previous day, she doubted she had any energy left to do so again. Perhaps she could take a nap and when she would wake, Missandei would be here.

“Wait.”

Startled, she turned back around. The guard to the left was gazing at her. “Maybe we can come to an agreement,” the man said.

“Hey, what are you doing?” His friend hissed at him.

Daenerys frowned as the bulky man began walking towards her. There was a glint in his eyes that she didn’t particularly like. Then he licked his lips and Daenerys’ stomach dropped. “I’m having some fun,” he muttered distractedly. He stood close to her, near enough for her to smell the ale on his breath.

Daenerys turned her face to the side, grimacing. “I…don’t believe this is appropriate,” she said, swallowing hard.

“Take me to your room, sweetheart,” the man breathed out against her cheek and it made her want to vomit, “and perhaps we’ll let you go out with your little friend next time.”

“No,” Daenerys gasped, pushing her hands against his chest.

Perhaps if she had a more consistent breakfast this morning, she would’ve been less useless than this. She could barely move the man an inch.

When his hand gripped her waist and began descending down to grope at her bottom, she was ready for the worst to happen. She shut her eyes and waited for the pain to come. It never did, though.

His friend had pushed him away. “What the fuck?” the second guard growled at him. “King Aegon asked us to keep an eye on her, not do _this._ ”

The man looked offended and pissed off. “Do you think he gives a shit what happens to her?” he scoffed, “I give her two weeks before she’s dead. You fool, we can have her.”

“No,” the man sternly replied. “We’re not allowed to touch her.”

“What are you going to do?” his friend asked, rolling his eyes, “Tell the King about this?”

* * *

The castle felt like every fairy tale she’d ever grown up hearing of coming to life. It was majestic, immense, bright and beautiful. Daenerys was captivated and if it was any other time, she would feel blessed to be able to be in such a magnificent place. But her awe was short-lived. She didn’t expect to be called in here so soon. She thought if she kept quiet and didn’t do anything wrong, she would never have to see _him_ again.

He wore a crown. When the golden thing caught the light and shone it made him appear both like a god and the devil. Frighteningly beautiful. He wore a black leather tunic, but the collar was adorned with bright red rubies. He sat on his throne and from the moment she stepped into the room, accompanied by four guards, his eyes never once left hers.

When she stopped walking, there was a moment of silence. Until he broke it, his voice calm but loud enough for everyone to hear, “Bring him in.”

Daenerys didn’t have to turn to know who was coming in. The fat guard whose breath she could still feel on her face came in crying, wobbling as the guards pushed him to the floor. He fell with a loud thud before getting to his knees. “M-my King, I did nothing.”

Daenerys looked away from her nephew, gritting her teeth. A part of her wished that man’s friend wasn’t so loyal to the King. She wished he’d kept quiet so they wouldn’t be here today.

_But then you wouldn’t get justice._

Who said this was justice for _her_ , though? What if in Jon’s eyes this was her fault for not staying in her room? What if he was simply annoyed they were bothering him with such an idiotic thing? What if she’d be punished for this? She remembered his words, spoken in a low voice, his dark eyes tracing her face— _I will not hurt you as long as you don’t give me a reason to._ Perhaps he only wanted a reason, and this was it.

From the corner of her eyes, she saw a familiar face among his men. Gendry. His face was unreadable.

“What’s your name?” Aegon asked from his chair of swords.

“M-Mykah.”

“Tell me what happened, Mykah. Your friend told me his version but I wish to hear yours.”

“She was running away,” he blurted and Daenerys’ head snapped to him in bewilderment. “She was trying to run so I—I had to stop her. I grabbed her and th-that was all. It was a misunderstanding.”

Daenerys’ lower lip trembled with anger, her fists curling at her sides. This wasn’t fair. But then again—none of it was. She didn’t expect Jon to understand. So, she remained quiet. Slowly, the King rose from his seat, came down the five steps and walked to them. His grey eyes went straight to her face as he stopped two feet away from her. “And you,” he spoke to her, “what do you have to say?”

 _Take the blame,_ she thought to herself, _take the blame instead of creating a problem you don’t want to deal with._

Against her better judgment, Daenerys shook her head. This was not fair. “He’s lying,” she said simply. “I didn’t try to run. I did want to go out—”

“Oh?”

“But only because I thought I was allowed to,” she rectified, “once they told me no, I was going back to my room then he….” Her throat closed up. She could feel the ghost of his body against hers.

Jon took a step closer, examining her face. His held not a single trace of any emotion. He was staring at her blankly, seriously. “Then he what?” he demanded softly.

“He touched me,” she said shakily. The words left a sour taste in her mouth. “He said that if I bring him to my room, he would let me go out the next time.”

It felt good to let it out. No matter what would happen from now on, she knew she’d stood by the truth. _Let the gods, however cruel they are, decide my fate._

“Are you lying to me, Daenerys?” His voice was quiet, a whisper only she could hear. A whisper that brushed against her tear-stained cheek like a physical touch.

Daenerys looked up, meeting his eyes. She stared at him, gave him the most open and honest look she could muster. Letting him see it all—the fright, the disgust, the exhaustion she felt. “No,” she said.

He held her gaze for a moment longer. She wished he was more expressive so she could tell what he was feeling—or thinking. But she was completely in the dark. So when he lifted his hand and showed her a dagger, she blinked in confusion.

“Do you want to do it?” he asked.

She blinked again. And again. “I’m—do what?”

“Cut his hand off,” he answered as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

The man cried louder. “What? No! I’m sorry!”

Jon didn’t even flinch, his eyebrows raised in question at her.

Daenerys’ breathing got harder. “I-I don’t want to cut his hand off,” she whispered.

“Then how will he learn?” Jon cocked his head to the side. “And I promise you it’s not as horrifying as cutting a neck off. Or cocks.” He made a face. “These are not pleasant at all.”

Daenerys looked around, at his men, wanting to know if they were hearing the same thing she was. _Is this a joke?_ But they all had a straight face. She began hyperventilating. “I can’t,” she said. She had trouble watching animals die, she could never harm another human being.

The King shrugged. “More for me then. Gendry, can you fetch me a block?”

Mykah was yelping, thrashing. “Please, don’t do this. I have a family, I have a wife, I—”

“I also specialise in cutting tongues off so you might want to keep quiet,” Aegon sighed.

Daenerys couldn’t tell if the man was sweating or crying. Or both. All she could say was that he looked horrified. “You don’t have to do this,” she said suddenly. She hated that man, hated what he could’ve done to her but this felt extreme.

“I know.” Jon’s lips quirked. “I _want_ to.”

Gendry brought the block. Daenerys felt nauseated, like she was responsible for all of this. 

“Which hand?” Jon asked her.

She was hyperventilating. “What?” she exhaled.

“Choose a hand,” he told her, “or I’ll have to cut both.”

“NO,” Mykah yelled. “Just choose one!”

Daenerys was panicking, tears streaming down her face. In her head, an image flashed. His hand cupping her bottom— “Left,” she gasped, “Left hand.”

The King nodded once. He nodded at a guard who dragged the weeping man to the block, forcing him to put his hand on the surface. Daenerys watched in horror as Jon casually cleaned his dagger with a piece of cloth, the sharp blade winking when it caught the light from the chandelier. He put himself in position and—

She flinched at the sound, her head jerking to the side instinctively. She never got to see the action but she heard it and felt it deep within her bones. The man’s screams heightened to a climax then turned into pitiful whines and cries. Her ears were ringing. When she dared to look back, she was horrified at the pool of blood on the ground, his _hand_ on the floor. Droplets of blood were still pouring from his wrist, dripping on the white tiles one by one.

“Take him away,” the King instructed, “and clean this.” He handed over his bloodied knife.

Daenerys stood there, frozen in place, her chest tight with emotions and her mouth parted wordlessly. She couldn’t believe she just witnessed… _that._

“She might be my prisoner,” King Aegon spoke to a dead silent room, “but she is also my family. Unless I give a direct order, none of you are allowed to do anything to her. Spread the news of what happened to our dear Mykah and let’s make sure it never happens again.”

He looked at her one last time and his calm demeanour unnerved her. He just chopped someone’s hand off, he could at least pretend to be slightly disturbed. “Take her away,” he said.

Gendry was the one to escort her out.

As he walked with her, he must’ve noticed her state of shock. “Don’t worry,” he said, his voice sounding sarcastic, “you’ll get used to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed. If you did, please let me know! Reviews are the best thing for authors. <3
> 
> tumblr: rhhaenyra


	3. Chapter 3

**iii. a new friend, a new hope**

“And then he cut the man’s hand off! Just like that.”

Missandei listened to her. But even as Daenerys finished telling her about what happened while she was gone, the young woman’s face didn’t change. Daenerys was expecting shock, perhaps a gasp, or maybe even a grimace. But she only widened her eyes a bit and said, “I understand that must’ve been a strange thing to see.”

“Strange?” Daenerys echoed. “It was…it was….” She didn’t have the words. Every time she closed her eyes, she could still picture Mykah’s hand on the ground and the pool of blood that gathered on the white floor. The poor boy’s screams and cries echoed in her brain every now and then, loud enough to give her a headache. “How are you so calm about this?” she asked instead, shaking her head in disbelief.

“I’ve lived here all my life, sweet girl. I’ve heard and seen worse things that he did.”

She shouldn’t ask but she was curious. “Like what?”

Missandei thought about it. “The worst thing I remember is when he burned five men alive.”

“Burned them?” Now that was atrocious. “Who?”

“They were the guards who helped Jaime Lannister commit treason, who helped him murder Rhaegar.” Missandei frowned. “We were all invited.”

“Invited?”

“By that I mean we were all forced to go watch or else…well, no one wanted to know what would happen if we didn’t go.”

“You went too?”

“Yes. I was only twelve.” A shadow fell on her face. “After that, I don’t think anything else can ever traumatise me again. He made their families watch. He made us all watch. It was horrifying.” She met Daenerys’ eyes. “Aegon hides behind the word ‘justice’ a lot. But sometimes, it’s hard to tell whether justice isn’t just his excuse to inflict pain upon others.”

Daenerys considered the words. And felt the guilt come back. If she’d only shut up about Mykah, he would still have his hand today. He didn’t deserve this, did he? “I’m responsible for ruining this man’s life,” she mumbled to herself.

Missandei heard her. “You couldn’t have known what kind of man our King is.”

“I knew he was cruel.” _Perhaps a small part of you_ wanted _him to be cruel to that man._

The thought made Daenerys shudder. She wasn’t a mean-spirited person. Her mother always taught her to forgive and forget, and she lived by those principles, she didn’t enjoy others’ demise. She wasn’t Jon—Aegon. Whoever he was. She was _not_ him.

“Daenerys, that man was about to rape you,” Missandei reminded her and even if the words were cold, they were the truth. “He lied to his King, knowing what kind of man he was. If Aegon had believed him….”

“I would’ve been the one getting punished,” Daenerys finished.

“Exactly. He didn’t feel bad about doing this to you so you shouldn’t feel bad about having done the same to him.” She shrugged. “And it’s not like you swung the dagger. You don’t have blood on your hands.”

And she was going to keep it that way, she vowed.

* * *

Her second night was better than the first one in some ways. But then again, in only one day, she’d witnessed part of Aegon’s dark side. She was going to be here forever, what else would she have to see? How worse would it get?

“I miss you,” she whispered to her mother’s ring in the dark. When she touched the diamond on the top, Daenerys smiled sadly to herself. Her mother always used to say her hair was as bright as diamonds. She closed her eyes, recalling Rhaella’s face and her smile. Maybe one day they would be reunited and this would all have been a nightmare.

Daenerys lay on her bed, ready to fall asleep with her ring clutched to her heart, but three knocks at the door sent her eyes flying open. She stood, heart in her throat as she approached the door. “Who is it?” she asked, remembering Missandei’s words about what men came here for at night.

“It’s just me,” Missandei replied.

Daenerys exhaled in relief and undid the lock. “We must come up with something so I know it’s you,” she suggested.

Missandei rolled her eyes. “If attackers came here, they wouldn’t bother knocking.”

This made the princess grimace. “That is true, I suppose.” She glanced down at her attire, noticing that she was wearing a prettier dress than usual. Not made for sleeping. “Where are you going?”

“Where are _we_ going?”

Before she even had the answer, Daenerys began shaking her head fiercely. “I’m not going anywhere,” she said matter-of-factly, “He doesn’t want me to go out.”

“It’s one a.m. Who’ll notice?”

“And if someone does? Do you want to get your legs cut off?”

Missandei laughed, but Daenerys was not joking. The scene was still clear in her head and she wondered how long it would take for the vividness to fade. A week, two? A year? “The King won’t find out. We’re going out through the window and will come back in before the sun rises,” she said and grabbed Daenerys’ hands, giving them an encouraging squeeze. “Don’t you feel trapped in here the whole day? If I were you, I’d hate being locked in a room like some kind of prisoner for a crime I didn’t commit.”

Daenerys pried her hands away from the girl before her, sighing softly. “Doesn’t matter what I feel,” she declared. “I don’t want problems.”

“Look at me.” Missandei placed her hands on Daenerys’ shoulders, looked deeply into her eyes. “I promise that nothing will happen to us.”

Daenerys wasn’t agreeing but…. “Where are we going?”

Missi’s eyes lit up. “There’s a tavern just down the road. We love going there with the girls.”

Daenerys’ eyes widened. “Aren’t these usually frequented by men?”

“Yes but women go too. Why?”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“It’s a safe place, Daenerys. Would I lie to you?”

Daenerys shook her head meekly.

“Don’t you want to drink some wine and forget about your worries?” Missandei asked.

“I don’t drink,” Daenerys answered honestly.

Missandei looked surprised. “Now we have even more reasons to go!”

She knew it was a bad idea but Missandei looked so excited and she was already dressed up and Daenerys _hated_ disappointing people she liked. Powerless to her friend’s hopeful gaze fixed on her own, she found herself nodding, agreeing to a night that would change her life.

* * *

It wasn’t hard to escape the house. The windows were large enough to accommodate more than one person hence it was easy to slip out one at a time, even if landing on the ground below _did_ hurt. Daenerys got up with a wince and saw that her elbow was bruised. Missandei shrugged and told her it would be worth it, to which the girl with golden-white hair only laughed.

“This is not really a clever disguise,” Daenerys murmured, pulling the back hood further down to cover the upper half of her face but not low enough to obstruct her view.

“It’s only your shiny white hair that we need to hide, love, no one will recognise you without it,” Missandei promised as they approached the tavern.

Daenerys was surprised that at two a.m., this place was packed. All the tables were occupied with groups of men and women laughing, drinking and conversing.

“I’ll get you something to drink,” Missandei said, sounding giddy. “You’ll love it!”

Before Daenerys could protest, her friend was gone. With a little chuckle, she decided to start moving before people began to question why a strange lady was gawking at the door. There was a huge fireplace in the right corner of the room and Daenerys was immediately attracted to the warmth. Her mother used to tell her about the Targaryens' fascination with fire but that it was something she never felt. For the sake of not worrying her needlessly, Daenerys agreed with her. Lied and said that she wasn’t intrigued by fire at all.

But there was little truth in that statement. She always craved warmth. She liked being enveloped in it, she liked feeling the heat kiss her skin then seep in like poison, wrapping around her veins. And there _was_ something intoxicating about fire—the way the flames danced and kissed, the crackling sounds, the smell….

Daenerys stood close to the fire. There was no one too close around and she felt the flames calling out to her, whispering her name in the dark. _It’s so warm,_ she thought, reaching out, just a bit further…just some more—

“Careful. Fire tends to burn.”

She started at the sound of that voice. It sounded eerily familiar. Slowly, she turned her head to the side and her breath caught in her throat. _Gendry._

She forced herself to stay calm, not to panic and cause a scene. He couldn’t know it was her, right? Trailing her eyes back to the fireplace, Daenerys made sure he couldn’t see her face, only her side profile. “I was just very cold,” she explained quickly, making sure to speak quietly and hoping that would help mask her voice.

“Really?” Gendry asked, coming closer still. She wanted to curl up in a ball and jump in the fire. “As far as I know, Dragonstone’s climate isn’t that much different from King’s Landing.”

A shiver ran down her spine, a lump rose to the back of her throat. “How did you know?” she inquired, voice blank.

“The ring on your finger,” he replied smoothly. “Saw you take it with you from your home.”

Daenerys looked down at her hand and cursed herself inwardly. The damage was done. She turned to Gendry. It was the first time she was looking _at_ him. Usually, there were just quick glances exchanged. Now he was standing so close to her and she could see every detail on his face, illuminated by the orange light. He had long lashes, bushy brows, blue eyes and tangled black hair. He looked so young yet the creases on his forehead indicated that he’d been through a lot. Saw a lot. “What’s next?” she asked, putting on a brave face. “You bring me to Jon—"

“Aegon,” he corrected her, voice dropping, “are you out of your mind to call him Jon?”

“It slipped.”

“Don’t let it slip again,” he warned.

“What will he do to me?”

Gendry eyed her sceptically. “He doesn’t like when people disobey his orders,” he said instead.

“ _Doesn’t like_? That’s an understatement.” She didn’t know where the bravery to retort came from. She wished it would go away.

To her surprise, the young man’s lips twitched in what could’ve almost been a smile. But then Missandei was coming back with two large glasses. “Try this. It’s wine but there’s something special in it,” she said, not paying mind to Gendry. Then she turned to him and smiled. “Greetings. I’m Missandei.”

Daenerys stared at her friend, eyes wide. _She doesn’t know Gendry is one of the King’s men._ Daenerys hesitantly took the drink from her hand. If she was to lose a limb, she might as well be drunk for it.

“I’m Gendry,” Gendry said, even returning a smile.

Missandei glanced between the two of them. “You know each other?”

“He’s a—”

“Long time friend,” Gendry cut her off, silencing her with a look that spoke louder than words. It was clear she was meant to follow along. “Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” Daenerys found herself saying.

Missandei arched her right brow at her and Daenerys knew she was up for questioning later. _If_ there would be a later, given the fact that one of Aegon’s loyal men just found that she’d been sneaking out of her house—for the first time, actually, but she doubted that would make a difference to the King—Daenerys was beginning to question how this night would end.

“Greyworm!” Missandei suddenly shrieked.

A young man across the room spotted Daenerys’ friend and grinned. “Hey!” He waved at her.

“I’ll be back,” Missandei said, brushing her fingers against Daenerys’ before she practically ran to the man.

Gendry looked back at her once they were alone. “You’ve made a friend, I see.”

“She works at the castle. As a maid. Do you know her?”

Gendry shook his head. “The castle is huge. And I’m mostly only where Aegon is.”

“I see.” She played with the rim of her glass, the cold surface warming up under her fingertips. “What happens to me now?”

“I won’t tell him I saw you,” Gendry said and Daenerys released a sigh of relief. At her reaction, he eyed her owlishly, “Did you think I was a monster?”

She blinked at him. “You serve the King.” Her eyes darted down to his gambeson, the Targaryen sigil embedded in the black.

“Serving,” Gendry repeated darkly, “that word makes it sound like we have a choice.”

She swallowed. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m sorry.” His gaze turned soft again. “Aegon rarely comes down to this place so you’re lucky but if you want to sneak around, be careful. Look out for his men.” He wet his lips. “They’re not all like me.”

“It was just a stupid idea,” Daenerys sniffed. “I won’t be out again. So, thank you for keeping this a secret.”

“Aren’t you going to drink this?”

The change in topics took her aback. She glanced down at her drink, sucking in her lower lip between her teeth. “I’m afraid I won’t take it well,” she told him sheepishly.

Gendry laughed. Unlike the King, his laughter wasn’t cruel or sarcastic. It was a nice change. “You won’t know unless you try,” he said.

She met his eyes. The challenge in them gave her the last push she needed. Taking in a deep breath, Daenerys brought the glass to her mouth and tilted it back, letting the liquid flow in her mouth. The taste wasn’t horrible but the moment it hit the back of her throat, she started coughing. It _burned._ Gendry chuckled at her bad reflexes, his eyes twinkling in amusement at her grimace. After a while, it got less bitter. Daenerys tried again. The second time, she didn’t cough and allowed the drink to forge a path of fire down her throat. It felt good in a very strange way.

“Was it that bad?” he asked.

She licked at the stray droplets from the corners of her lips and found herself smiling. Truthfully. The kind of smile she thought only Missandei would bring out of her. “No,” she answered, “no it wasn’t.”

Gendry’s eyes dropped to her ring again. She could tell he was curious. “Is that…an engagement ring?”

Flabbergasted by this query, she could only laugh. Then shook her head. “No. It’s my mother’s ring.”

“Oh.”

Daenerys watched him carefully. Gendry seemed like a good guy. She deemed herself to be an excellent judge of character. So, she allowed herself to ask, “Is she alright? My mother?”

He met her gaze and exhaled gently. “For me to give you a definite answer would be lying.” Her stomach churned. “But the King hasn’t spoken of Dragonstone again. I believe she must be alright.”

Out of desperation, she also asked, “Do you think there’s a way I could contact her?”

Gendry’s eyes turned to a glare. “What you’re asking of me is to go behind my King’s back and—”

“No, you’re right, I’m sorry.” The alcohol must’ve been messing with her head. “It’s just that…I want her to know I’m okay. I know she must be imagining the worst and knowing my mother, she’s probably blaming herself for all of it. I want her to be at peace knowing that I’m fine.”

Gendry stared at her. She looked away.

He sighed. “Fine,” he blurted.

Her eyes moved to him. “Fine?”

“I can let you get in contact with her. A letter.”

“Oh?” Her voice was high, full of optimism.

“Yes. I’m giving you two days to write it. Meet me here again at the same time in two days.”

She was _so_ unbelievably happy she wanted to jump in his arms, hug him and thank him a million times. But she couldn’t do that without coming across as a creep so she settled on a grin. A big smile that went from her mouth to her eyes. “Thank you, Gendry. Thank you so much.”

He smiled back at her and for a moment, everything was alright in the world.

* * *

She made sure the letter was perfect.

Missandei admitted that she wasn’t exactly literate but Daenerys still used her help to come up with the right things to say, to describe King’s Landing in a way that made it seem like paradise.

“I can’t believe one of King Aegon’s men wants to help you get in touch with your mother,” Missandei said in wonder.

“Gendry’s not like the rest,” Daenerys answered with a little, secretive smile.

* * *

Getting Gendry to send the letter was not hard. But waiting for a reply was torturous. She went back to the tavern every night just to see if her mother had answered. On some nights, Gendry would come. On others, he wouldn’t. Every time he met up with her he assured her that if there was an answer, he would let her know. But more days that passed without her mother acknowledging that she received the letter filled Daenerys with dread. What if something happened to her? How would she know?

Two weeks after she’d sent her letter, on one particular moonless night, Daenerys went out to the tavern on her own. She was brave enough to trace the usual steps they took but without Missandei this time. She’d just woken up with a feeling that her mother reached out to her. So, she followed her instincts and went to look for Gendry.

She noticed something was off the moment she’d stepped in. There were fewer people and they were quieter. She was in a hurry so she didn’t care. She pushed past sweaty bodies and found Gendry perched on a bench, drinking ale. Her face broke out in a smile as she made her way to him.

When she was near enough, he noticed her. His face blanched. “No,” he mouthed to her.

Befuddled, she didn’t stop walking. “Has she sent anything back?” Daenerys asked.

Gendry stared at her for seconds that seemed to stretch on forever. And then he was on his feet, stalking forward. Daenerys’ brow furrowed, wondering what was up with him. He grabbed onto her arm, forcefully, and loudly said, “Your Grace. Look who’s here.”

Daenerys felt _his_ presence before she saw him. It was as if her blood could sense his and began thumping a dangerous rhythm in her veins. Gendry forced her to turn around and she was looking upon Aegon’s face once more. He didn’t have his crown on that night but his kingly aura never left him. No one could mistake him for a commoner—this man oozed power and confidence. She noticed that he had a scar on his brow. _It must be new,_ she thought, _because I remember every detail of his face and this wasn’t there the last time._

“I must say you’re brave,” the King mused, his muscled arms crossed over his chest, “you’ve seen what happens to people who go against me yet…you do exactly that.”

“I’m sorry,” was all that came out of her mouth.

“What are you doing here?”

For a second, she contemplated telling him the truth about why she’d come here. That would mean putting the blame on Gendry, too, and a twisted part of her felt that Jon would believe her as she did with Mykah, and perhaps give Gendry the same treatment.

But that wasn’t her. She’d accidentally given the order to hurt that man but she would never intentionally hurt Gendry, even if he had no trouble tossing her in the fire. “I was bored,” she said.

Two of Aegon’s men exchanged looks.

_Gods, is that the best you could come up with?_

Jon lifted a brow. “Can you elaborate on that?”

“I hate being locked up day and night,” she said—and it was true. “I’m used to going out. I spent most of my days outside. I like getting things done. I’m sorry, I know you asked me to stay in, but I couldn’t take it anymore. I wasn’t trying to escape or anything like that, I just...needed to be outside for a while.”

He _smiled,_ seven hells. “That’s all? You could’ve just told me.”

She gulped. “I could…?”

“I didn’t consider how boring it is to be locked inside a room the whole day,” he nodded, “don’t worry, from tomorrow on, I’ll find you something to do.”

“I would love that,” she numbly replied, not entirely true but she was too surprised by his reaction, or lack thereof.

“Next time you need anything, just ask me, Daenerys.” He was still smiling and it creeped her out how handsome he looked doing so. “The only thing I hate is when people lie to me,” he added and slowly advanced towards her, like a dragon eyeing a helpless sheep it was about to devour. His dark gaze went all over her face, scanning her as if looking for all of her deepest secrets, for all the things she was not telling him. When his eyes fell on her lips, she felt them parting instinctively, her heart curiously jumping in her chest. She didn’t know what was happening and didn’t feel like she was in control of her body when he looked at her like that. “You wouldn’t lie to me, now, would you?” he murmured the words.

“No,” she answered breathlessly. _A lie._

He dragged his eyes back to hers and if it was possible, they were a darker shade of grey than before now, clouded with _something_ she couldn’t name. Or wouldn’t. It was as if he knew she was lying, as if he knew every single thing she was thinking of—even _this._ “Good,” he stated then backed away. “You can let her go, Gendry. She’ll go back home now, isn’t that right, Daenerys?”

Daenerys nodded.

He smiled one last time and turned around, walking away from her.

She turned back to Gendry. Finally out of her King-Aegon-induced trance, she felt all of her emotions come rushing back. Anger, betrayal, _hurt_. “Thank you for your solidarity,” she sneered.

“He would’ve killed me,” he said drily, “if he knew what we were doing.”

“And me! But you had no problem putting the blame on me alone.”

He had the nerve to shake his head. “I know he won’t hurt you, there’s a difference.”

She scoffed. She was the one who was locked up. “How can you say that?”

“Because he doesn’t want to hurt you, don’t you see it?” he gritted out at her accusingly.

She recoiled in surprise. “What is that supposed to mean? See _what_?”

Gendry sighed heavily. “Nothing,” he muttered, rubbing his thumb over his brow tiredly. “Your mother hasn’t responded. And even if she does, I’m not sure _this_ is a good idea anymore.”

“This?”

“You know what I mean. I’m sorry. I probably should’ve never gotten involved in this.” He shook his head to himself, looking disappointed in himself.

Daenerys watched as he walked away, not once glancing back at her. She hated the pain she felt in her heart. She had nothing to say to make him stay, for that would be selfish. That night, when she went back to bed, she was thankful she didn’t go out with Missandei because that would’ve meant she’d be dragged into this as well. She was a walking disaster, and everyone was better off staying away from her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3 chapters in 3 days aaand now I have nothing left to give you. :P The next updates will probably take longer because I had those 3 written down already. But you know what would be really encouraging? Feedback! Tell me your thoughts, what you liked and hated, I don't mind discourse as long as it's respectful. :) 
> 
> And if you have any questions, hit me up on Tumblr ([rhhaenyra](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/rhhaenyra)) I'll be more than happy to answer all of your queries. Thank you for reading.


	4. Chapter 4

**iv. touch**

One thing Daenerys learned in the three weeks she’d been in King’s Landing was that if she wanted to fit in with the other people who occupied this building, she had to speak more with them.

Even if they were all women – of all ages – she still did not feel fully comfortable with them, not the way they were with one another. Even Missandei got along with the girls easily, Daenerys wasn’t _there_ yet but she told herself she was getting somewhere.

Over breakfast, they spoke of their days at work.

“Last night, Lord Mandyll came home drunk and…,” one woman was saying, trailing off suggestively as she took a bite out of the white bread filled with green beans on her plate.

Another gasped. Her name was Ros, Daenerys learned, and her hair was so red it looked like blood. She was one of the prostitutes. _One of the best one,_ she’d bloated to Daenerys when she introduced herself to her with a hug. “Did he…?” she asked, her eyebrows climbing to her crimson hairline.

“I liked it,” the dark-haired woman finished, smiling sheepishly. “I hope I’m pregnant!”

Daenerys almost choked. They had strange tales and were very…open with each other. Crass with their words. Rhaella made sure Daenerys grew up in a swearing-free environment so, in the little time she’d been here, Daenerys has learned more bad words than she had in the twenty-three previous years of her existence.

“Mandyll is a pig. He’ll fuck anything that breathes,” Ros scoffed. "Maybe some that don't, too."

This morning, only the four of them were eating together—Daenerys, Ros, the girl with dark hair whose name she couldn’t remember and Missandei. On other days, there would be more women. It depended on how much work they had. Every day Daenerys was there, though.

She felt so bloody useless in this place. When all the girls were gone -- the servants off to work at different lords and ladies’ houses and the whores off…well, doing their duty -- Daenerys was left alone in this huge house, with nothing to do. She felt like such a huge waste of space. The other day, Missandei brought her a book. Daenerys was so bored she read the entire thing in less than forty-eight hours.

She’d meant what she told Jon the previous night. She wanted to go out—do something with her life. Even if she was his captive, she wished she could be useful in some ways. Daenerys still hadn’t told Missandei about her going to the inn last night and getting caught by the King himself. She didn’t wish to scare her. But that doesn’t mean Daenerys had stopped thinking about it, or about him. Try as she wished, the King resided in every little corner of her mind, like a rat that refused to leave a house.

She also thought about Gendry. A part of her was mad at him for giving her false hope and having her believe that he would help her communicate with her mother. A larger part of her knew that wasn’t fair. The King was a dangerous man and Gendry owed her nothing. Even if she received no answer, she was relieved that to the very least, she succeeded in sending out a letter to Rhaella. Daenerys liked to believe her mother got the missive and knew she was safe.

“Can we not speak of fucking old, ugly, married men while we’re eating?” Missandei asked, grimacing.

Daenerys chuckled at that.

“Fine. How about this...Daenerys! Tell us your spiciest story from Dragonstone,” Ros suggested, smirking, “Any boys?”

Daenerys swallowed the piece of chicken she just put in her mouth prematurely. “Um, no. No boys.”

Missandei gasped. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” Daenerys swore.

“You haven’t fucked anyone,” the brunette said, snorting, “but you’ve kissed someone. Right?”

At her silence, she slammed her fist on the table. “Someone as pretty as you hasn’t _kissed_ anyone? Seven hells, are all the men in Dragonstone blind or brainless?”

“Women count too,” Ros butted in, nodding encouragingly at Daenerys.

The latter blushed. “I haven’t kissed a man.” She glanced at Ros, “nor a woman.”

“Why not?” Missandei asked. "I'm four years younger than you and already went _all the way_."

Daenerys didn’t have an answer to that. And thankfully, she didn’t have to think of one. The door had barged open right then, the abruptness of it shocking all of the girls. Daenerys, especially, grew more anxious than the rest when she watched five men walk in—men bearing royal armour. Aegon’s men.

“We’ve come here on King Aegon Targaryen’s orders,” one of them spoke up. He had a sharp, pointy nose, dark beard and hair. She’d never seen him before. “He wants us to escort Daenerys to court.”

Daenerys held her breath in apprehension. _What have I done this time?_ She wondered. Had he found out about the letter? Was she going to be executed? Was Gendry?

“…For a visit,” the man added.

“Did he just say visit?” Ros muttered next to Daenerys.

Daenerys didn’t share their confusion. It seemed that the King took her words from last night to heart. He’d told her that he’d find something for her to do so as not to be bored and _this_ was his idea.

“Is visit another word for execution?” The other woman asked.

Daenerys turned to them. “No…I think it just means a visit.”

“Just in case you don’t return,” Ros said, giving her a sympathetic look, “know that I really like your hair.”

Daenerys quirked a brow. “That’s the only thing you liked about me? Thank you,” she said sarcastically.

Ros grinned.

“Hurry up,” the man gruffly commanded.

Daenerys was up the next second, pushing back the chair, meeting Missandei’s worried gaze from across the table. “Don’t worry,” she told her friend, “I will be back.”

At least she hoped she would.

* * *

“Hello. I’m Samwell Tarly, one of King Aegon’s advisors and his closest friend.”

Daenerys stared at the man for a long while. She raised her eyebrows a bit as if to say, _blink twice if you need help._ He was a fat boy with big, brown eyes and a warm smile that did not seem forced. Even his tone sounded sincere, not like Gendry’s voice that was basically a scream for help whenever he spoke near Aegon.

This man seemed…happy about his position. The way he said the words 'closest friend' indicated that he was proud of this too.

“I’m Daenerys,” she said, which was stupid because he must know since he was welcoming her at the gates.

“I know. You came from Dragonstone, didn’t you?”

Daenerys’ smile, on the other hand, was fake. She didn’t _come_ from Dragonstone, she suddenly wished to snap at him, she was dragged like a woman sentenced to life in prison, like some war criminal in trial for treason. She wasn’t here on holidays, she wasn’t here on her will. She was snatched from her mother’s shaking arms as she cried.

“Yes,” she responded instead like she was expected to, “that is right.”

“Aegon told me about your arrival and how you wished to see more of King's Landing. Walk with me, Daenerys, and I’ll give you a tour of the castle. It’s beautiful.” He extended his arm for her.

The two guards who were walking right by her side stepped back, allowing her room to follow Sam instead. Against her will, she looped her upper arm with his own and together, they began walking.

It was sunny outside that day and Daenerys revelled in the warmth on her skin. She was wearing a pale green gown and she was glad for the short sleeves. She didn’t know she would be going out but it felt good to have the sun rays hit her bare, pale flesh.

“This is the Great Garden,” Sam began, “it’s one of the most peaceful places in King’s Landing.”

They passed through said garden. The place was quiet, save for the shuffling of leaves when the wind hit them. Everywhere was green, she felt at ease just walking by and knew that if she could spend a whole day here, perched under one of those trees with a book on her lap, she would be the happiest that she had been in a while. “It’s beautiful,” Daenerys commented.

Sam went to show her the backyard, where men were sparring. “They’re new members of the Kingsguard,” he explained.

The boys looked very young.

As if he’d heard her thoughts, Samwell added, “Our King likes to have them trained from a very young age. Shape their minds for wars from the beginning itself.”

She watched them for a moment, feeling bad and wondered how many of them were here because they _wanted_ to be here. Her mind flashed back to Gendry. He was young too and from what she could tell, he didn’t like serving Aegon. He had no choice in doing so. But she supposed he must be strong for the King to trust him that much. And a good liar, for if Jon knew that Gendry despised him, he probably wouldn’t trust him to be around him all the time.

The more they walked around, the less tense Daenerys became around Sam. Her stiff shoulders began to slack and she allowed herself to smile and speak more. Sam was a kind man. At some point, they spotted a group of children playing in the courtyard with wooden swords.

One little boy stabbed the other with the fake weapon. The latter gave a dramatic grunt before falling on the ground, rolling over in the mud. “If you’ll excuse me, my lady,” Sam muttered then made his way to them. Daenerys followed.

“ _Sam_! What did I say about playing outside?” Tarly huffed.

The boy with brownish hair who just got ‘stabbed’ and was now covered in dirt sat up, pouting. “Be careful not to get too far away?” he guessed.

Sam put his hands on his hips, “And?”

“Um….” Little Sam scratched his head in confusion and both him and his friend looked so adorable that it brought a smile to Daenerys’ face. “I can’t remember, Father.”

Samwell Tarly sighed in exhaustion. “I told you not to get your clothes dirty,” he scolded, “look at you! What will mama say?”

“She’ll yell,” his son guessed.

“Exactly. And what happens when mama yells?”

“You get a headache and say, ‘someday I’ll leave this house!’” Little Sam exclaimed, even dropping the tone of his voice so he could mimic his father’s.

Daenerys laughed.

Tarly’s cheeks went red. “Go back inside and clean yourself up,” he instructed then turned to his son’s friend, “you too. Come on. Hurry up.”

The two boys were off in a sprint, racing each other as they obeyed his orders. Sam Tarly turned back to Daenerys, smiling sheepishly. “Children,” he uttered, “they ruin your lives.”

“Your son is called Sam too?” she asked, only because it seemed strange to her.

“Oh. He’s not my son,” he said then his eyes grew big. “That sounded wrong. He’s my son but not…mine. Not by blood.” He sighed, and tried again, “my wife Gilly had him with another man. It was not a good experience for her. I managed to bring her to court with me and away from that man who used to abuse her. She was so thankful for it she named him after me because she said I was the hero she hoped her son would grow up to be.” He looked down, smiling fondly.

“That’s very sweet,” Daenerys said, her own lips curling. 

He grinned. “Thank you.”

They continued their walk. “If I ask you something, do you promise not to take it the wrong way?” Daenerys inquired gently.

“I promise.”

“Do you…serve King Aegon out of choice or…?”

“I don’t,” Sam replied, much to Daenerys’ surprise. But then, he also added, “but I’m his friend by choice.”

_That’s somehow worse._

She couldn’t imagine why someone like Sam, kind, compassionate, would willingly befriend someone like Jon.

Her silence gave her puzzlement away. Sam laughed a bit. “That's probably weird to you, right?”

She hummed.

“He is…excessive in his ways. But tell me, Daenerys, has Westeros ever known more peace than it has now?”

Daenerys pondered over this. “Was Jaime Lannister that horrible?” she asked softly, knowing that nobody spoke of that man anymore. The usurper.

“Let’s see. Jaime stole from the crown which was then in debt for a long while. He used the people for his own gain. King’s Landing was starving for years because he never had a solid plan to fix their problems. Women could be walking down the streets, dragged and raped because he didn’t care to punish criminals who didn’t directly affect him.” Sam turned to her, “You wouldn’t be here today if Aegon hadn’t stepped in and took what was his.”

Daenerys knew of that. She knew that Jaime wanted to send assassins to Dragonstone to get rid of her, the last Targaryen.

“Jaime was all sorts of evil but he hid it,” Sam finished, “Our King might be cruel but he’s honest about it. And even if it’s hard to believe, even if he does love power, he also cares about the people. He has brought peace to Westeros—but it came at a price.” He shrugged. “Personally, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

She’d never heard this point of view before. It made her realise that some men loved King Aegon, that he was a monster to some, but a hero to others.

“Daenerys?”

She looked at him. “Yes?”

“Welcome to the Throne Room,” Sam smiled, pushing open two large doors.

Daenerys inhaled sharply as she entered, her eyes drinking everything in like she would never get to see this ever again. She saw it before, the other day when Jon had cut off Mykah’s hand but she was too troubled to truly soak its beauty in. The Iron Throne was as big and impressive as her mother had told her.

“How does it look?” Sam asked.

“Beautiful,” she answered sincerely, “and uncomfortable.”

They shared a laugh.

* * *

Next, she was led into a room Sam called ‘very artistic’.

When she asked what he meant by that, he elaborated with, “Aegon has an eye for beauty. He loves paintings and sculptures. Many artists have worked on the pieces in this room.”

It was breathtaking. Daenerys had never seen such a large variety of art before. From intricately crafted flower vases to paintings on the walls and ceilings, she wanted to keep looking until she had everything memorized.

“I’ll leave you here,” Sam said.

Daenerys’ eyes snapped to his. “Wait, no, I don’t know my way back.”

“The King is coming to see you here,” Sam said with a little smile. “This is where our ways part.”

“Goodbye, it was very nice to meet you,” she told him earnestly.

He nodded once and was on his way out.

She tried her hardest to ignore the fact that Aegon was on his way to meet her, for what, she had no idea and decided to take a look around and appreciate the art. She followed along the painting on the wall, her brow furrowed in concentration. It told a story. There were horses, men fighting, dying and…dragons.

Her fingers shyly ghosted over the majestic beasts painted on the wall. Even as just a picture they were gorgeous. Dragons had been gone for centuries now, everyone knew that. But gods, how wonderful and terrifying would it be if they were still here.

Daenerys was entranced by the sculptures. Her mouth remained open in wonder as she approached a particular statue—or should she say statues, for there was a man _and_ a woman. She was stupefied by how realistic it seemed the closer she got. Even if they were painted white, the details on the couple were rich and precise. The man was seated on a chair—or was it the Throne? And the woman on his lap, an arm curled around his neck.

“Rhaegar,” she whispered to herself in recognition. “And Lyanna.” She traced the girl’s arm, touched the man’s face.

Behind her, someone lowly chuckled. With a start, she turned. Aegon was a contrast to the very bright, very white place. He was dressed in black from head to toe, not even a trace of red in his attire. He didn’t have a crown nor a sword, but he walked up to her with the confidence of a man armed with the deadliest weapons. “Many people don’t recognise them. How did you?”

“It was just a guess,” she answered.

The first time they’d met, she was a stuttering fool who could not form more than two proper sentences. Now, her mind and body seemed to have gotten used to his exhilarating presence. She wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing.

"You know, my father was betrothed to Elia Martell. They were supposed to get married."

Daenerys had heard the rumours, never knew they held a silver of truth. "But he married Lyanna," she said.

"He did. He broke a promise that day," Jon sighed, "Elia's brother, Oberyn, joined in with Jaime to plan and kill him because he was mad Rhaegar broke Elia's heart."

"That's excessive," she commented.

"Yes. Well, it's nothing compared to what I put him through afterwards."

She didn't want to know, but she had a feeling he'd tell her anyway. 

He chuckled, "it involved his eyeballs and a lot of blood."

Daenerys grimaced, a not-so-pretty picture being painted in her head.

“I wish I could’ve met him,” he said, staring upon his father’s face. His eyes were distant. Daenerys found herself staring at him rather than the art, unable to tear her gaze away from the slope of his nose or the shadows cast by his long eyelashes. _Why did the gods make something so cruel so, so beautiful?_ He looked at her, caught her staring, and his lips quirked as she felt embarrassment colour her cheeks pink. “If only to disprove those rumours.”

Snapping out of her momentary daze, she frowned at his words. “What rumours?”

“That he was the most beautiful man alive.”

“You don’t think he was?”

“I think he would’ve had some competition,” he replied.

She blinked at him. _Is he talking about himself?_ He was amused by her reaction and she realised he was joking. _How are you supposed to react when Aegon fucking Targaryen cracks a joke with you?_

She smiled. And prayed that it didn’t look like a grimace.

“And her,” he continued, his gaze now shifting to Lyanna and her flower crown. It was said Rhaegar gave her that crown and she always wore it, and the blue roses somehow never wilted. “I wonder what she looked like. They sing songs about Rhaegar, about his victories, defeats, beauty and good heart. But never was a word sung about Lyanna.”

“I think,” she said, licking her lips, “that she looked like you.”

His eyes darted to her. Frozen under his molten stare, she forced herself to continue, “you have…many Stark features.” His eyes darkened. _You bloody fool, what are you doing?_ “Long face, dark eyes, hair…I-I just mean that—“ _Oh gods, he’s frowning, he looks mad, you’re_ dead, _Daenerys. Dead._ “You didn’t take much after Rhaegar. So you probably look a lot like your mother.”

She held her breath as he turned his full attention to her. “I’m not a Stark,” he stated.

She nodded. Quickly.

Jon moved in her direction. Only one step but it felt like the space between them was now non-existent. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yes, you may.” Her pulse jumped.

“Are you afraid of me?”

Daenerys considered her two replies. If she said yes, would he say that she had no reason to be? If she said no, would he tell her that she should be? This man was so complicated to her that she couldn’t really predict an answer. Either could be possible, both could be wrong. “Sometimes,” she settled on, her voice a bit squeaky on the edges, “yes.”

“Like when?” he asked, sounding genuine. As if he didn’t know what could possibly be frightening about a man like him.

“Like when you took that man’s hand,” she answered the first thing that came to her head.

“I don't regret hurting him, he would've hurt you.”

The intensity of his gaze made her shudder. She continued. “When I heard that you’ve burned soldiers alive.”

“They committed treason,” he replied casually.

“They were at war. They didn’t have a choice.”

_Shut up, Daenerys, what are you doing?_

He frowned. “They plotted to kill Rhaegar. And succeeded. After everything my father had sacrificed for them, they sided with Jaime. What was I supposed to do, invite them to dinner after I got the Throne?”

“Sometimes mercy is an option,” she exhaled. She didn’t know why she was explaining this to him—he knew all of that. This argument was more dangerous for her safety than anything.

“We can’t hide behind small mercies,” he retorted like it was the most logical thing in the world. “When else were you scared of me?” he asked, his voice getting a timbre lower, his face growing closer to hers.

Instinctively, she took a step back and a little gasp escaped her when she felt her back hit something. _The sculpture._ She stopped moving right away. If that statue fell and broke, she’d probably be the next thing in the room to be shattered into small pieces.

Jon seemed to like the idea of trapping her and had no trouble closing the gap between them. He observed her face, _like he always did._ “Now?”

“What?”

“Are you scared of me now?” he rephrased.

She licked her lips and his eyes followed the movement. Suddenly, she felt hot all over. Her palms grew clammy, beads of sweat gathered between her breasts. “Maybe,” she answered.

He smiled devilishly. “Do you know what I think? I think you _want_ to be scared of me right now but you’re not, not really.”

“That doesn’t make sense to me,” she whispered back. Why were they whispering anyway? They were in a large room. _Alone._ The realisation sent a trail of shivers down her back.

“If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead already.”

Her stomach coiled. “That’s…reassuring,” she muttered.

“You know what I mean.” It was his turn to wet his lips and her gaze traced his tongue, too, something inside of her tingling at the sight of it. He was doing _something_ to her. He had to. Some kind of magic, perhaps, there was no other explanation for all the weird things her body went through when he was this close to her. Close enough for her to smell him, something like ice and fire, something sweet, something metallic. Close enough for her to see the white specks in his eyes, his pupils fattening the nearer he leaned in towards her. “I didn’t bring you here—to King’s Landing—for no reason, Daenerys.”

“What was the reason, then?” she questioned because she wished to know. She had no idea.

“You know it, deep down. You’ve always known.” He smiled sinisterly. “You feel it too. That fire. I know you do.”

“I don’t…,” she started denying whatever he was speaking of but trailed off, getting lost in his eyes, in the dark grey depths that stared back at her knowingly. Like he was aware of her every thought and feeling—things even _she_ ignored. “I don’t know.”

“You’re just not allowing yourself to embrace it.” Every syllable brushed against her heated skin.

Her mind was spinning with his scent, his eyes, the heat from his body. She completely forgot what she was going to reply. Hells, this whole conversation flew right out of her head when he leaned in, his breath fanning over her mouth deliciously, her lips parting wordlessly. Invitingly. She was helpless to the force that bound them together, even if she knew that sounded ridiculous, it was true. It was stronger than her, the magnetic pull to him and every sane and logical part of her screamed no, no, no but she still swayed forward, surrendering, helping him lessen the distance between them and do as he wished with her.

His lips brushed against hers softly.

The door flew open.

She watched as Jon’s eyelids fell shut, his jaw ticking in evident irritation as he moved away from her. They both turned their heads to the entrance where Gendry, out of people, stood. “Your Grace,” he called out, bowing lightly, “I…um, sorry for coming in like this. There was a scroll from Winterfell that just arrived.”

“And?” Jon asked, uncaring.

“It’s from Lord Stark. It’s an urgent matter.”

The King walked away from Daenerys slowly and she felt herself release a puff of breath she wasn’t aware she’d been holding. “You’re lucky I like you,” he told Gendry, patting him on the shoulder, “take Daenerys out. I’ll be there once I’m done checking on this _important_ message.”

Gendry gulped. “Yes, my King.”

When he left, Gendry stuck his head out to check if he was really gone before shutting the door behind him. His steps were quick as he came towards Daenerys, who was still shaken from what had just happened. Almost happened. “Are you okay?” he asked brusquely, eyeing her all over, “did he hurt you?”

“What?”

“I saw him getting in here alone. I was afraid he did something to you.” His eyes darkened impossibly, “did he?”

“No,” she answered, shaking her head for effect. “No. That’s why you barged in here? You thought he did something to me?”

He exhaled through his nose. “Well, I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

“Thank you,” she said because she felt like that was what she was supposed to do. He came in here to save her, right? Although the word _save_ didn’t feel correct in the context of what was happening with Jon. The flutters in her chest and stomach didn’t feel like fright. She knew fright. That was not it. This was something dangerous and, much to her horror, not in a negative way. Was he going to kiss her?

At that moment, to reassure herself, Daenerys told herself that she was letting him do as he pleased only because she was afraid of him and what he could do if she didn't allow him to. But a voice in the back of her head named her a liar, a part of her knew that she was an active participant in whatever was about to happen.

The thought terrified her endlessly.

What was wrong with her?

Daenerys licked her suddenly chapped lips. “I thought you wanted nothing to do with me anymore.”

“I’m here now, aren’t I?” He smiled weakly. “It seems I can’t stay true to my words.”

“I’m glad you're here."

“Also…I received a letter from Dragonstone.”

“Did you?” Her voice came out loud.

“Shh,” he shushed her warningly, “no one knows. And no one can know.”

“When can I have it?” she asked, excited, relieved, happy.

“I can come to you. Tonight.”

“You will?”

“Yes, it’s too dangerous to meet at the tavern again.” Gendry shifted on his feet. “I feel like _he_ suspects something.”

She shook her head. “I doubt so. We were discreet.”

“He never comes to drink over there. So why did he? Aegon is wise. He knows a lot more than he lets on.” Gendry frowned. “He sees everything.”

Daenerys gulped. “Okay. Tonight, then?”

“Leave a light on so I’ll know which one is your room. I’ll come through the window.”

“I don’t know how to thank you,” she told him. She had nothing to give him.

“Just promise me one thing. Be careful around Aegon. Try to avoid being alone with him.” Gendry’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I see the way he looks at you.”

It was there again. The tingling sensation in her stomach. _Fear,_ she told herself it was this time. _Fear, fear, fear._ Maybe if she kept saying it she would believe it. “Like what?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “But he means no good, I know it.”

“I promise,” she said, pushing the thoughts of Jon’s mouth nearing hers away, “I’ll be careful around him.”

* * *

Jon came to see her before she left, as promised.

As always, she couldn’t decipher what he was thinking when he met her near the gates. She wondered how easily he could read her on the other hand. He stopped before her, his arms behind his back. “Ned Stark is arriving to King’s Landing tomorrow. There will be a welcoming ceremony in his honour.”

She blinked. “That is nice,” she said awkwardly, not understanding how this related to her.

“I want you to be here for it.”

She glanced at Gendry instinctively, who subtly shook his head at her. “I will be happy to join you,” she said. What else was she going to do? Say she had other plans? 

“Good.” Jon’s smile broadened as he took her hand in his. His men around him all looked away. Except Gendry. With his eyes fixed on hers, he brought her hand to his mouth, pressed his lips against the back of it. Heat shot down her body. His voice was low and full of hidden meanings when he spoke once more. “It’s something you won’t want to miss, trust me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whatever Jon has in mind?!?! Hint: It's not very nice. Duh.
> 
> I swear I don't intend this to be a slowburn but I want things to progress naturally and, yeah, this chapter just didn't feel like it was *the* one for anything spicy yet. Next up is Jon's POV!!! I've just finished outlining the story and that's why I'm still updating the tags. I added the minor relationships tags the other day and it seemed to have struck a few nerves. Ah, well, sorry for that. It wasn't malicious, I genuinely hadn't finished the outline and didn't exactly know where this was going. Now I do. But bear in mind that these minor pairings are exactly that. MINORRR. As in insignificant, nothing explicit about them. But if you still can't stomach this then, well, maybe this isn't for you. x
> 
> This was a fairly fast update, I'm not sure about the next one. Idk. But it should be up before next week. Thank you for the nice comments, I love to read your thoughts and theories, what you liked and didn't so please entertain me with them. :)


	5. Chapter 5

**v. the truth will destroy us**

“Come in.”

Sam Tarly shut the door behind him. Jon stood next to his window, hands clasped behind his back as he allowed the silence to stretch on for a few more seconds. But he was an impatient man. He’d sent Sam out on a mission last night and now, he needed his answers. Slowly, he turned to his friend.

Sam offered a little smile. “Slept well?” he asked.

If this was any other man trying to make small talk with him, Jon would probably threaten to slit their throat. But Sam was his _friend._ He had been with him since the orphanage, had been by his side when he’d killed Jaime and then Tyrion. That day, everyone else turned their back on Jon, understandably. He noticed the shift right away—the transitioning from awe and love to fright and horror.

But Sam never looked at him differently. When he used to get bullied by the big kids at the orphanage, Jon was the one who stood up for him, taken beatings for him. He told Jon that he would be his friend until his dying day, even if Jon himself was the one to inflict that death upon him. Jon had no intention of doing so. Sam was the only person he trusted.

Hence, he was the only person who could’ve done what Jon asked him to do the previous evening.

“I did,” he answered. “Enough pleasantries, Sam, did you find anything?”His friend nodded. “I did.”

“And?”

“Are you sure you don’t want some tea first? Gilly was already making—”

“Sam.”

“Or maybe take a walk, cool your mind. It’s not wise to get stressed this early in the morn—”

“Sam.”

“And you have a lot to worry about already, with Lord Stark—”

“ _Sam._ ” He sneered the word, raised his volume.

Samwell shut his mouth. He exhaled defeatedly. “I kept an eye on Gendry as you asked,” he began, “and when night came, he went out. So, I followed him. You were right. He went to see Daenerys.”

Even if Jon had a feeling about it—from the way he could barely keep his eyes off of her whenever she was around, to them coincidentally being at the inn together the other night and to the previous day with Gendry barging in when he was alone with Daenerys, even if he knew that Jon despised being interrupted—he was hoping to be proven wrong.

He knew having Daenerys here was risky. He knew that it would be a weakness for him. This is why he did not wish to bring her to court with him, why he wanted to keep her away from the lords and ladies who were eagerly waiting for an opportunity to betray him. His efforts were fruitless, it seemed, since even keeping her away from the castle did not stop one of his own men to betray him for her.

“How long was he there for?”

“I waited over an hour before leaving. He never did.”

Jon clenched his teeth. What was he doing with her for more than an hour? He did not know what was worse, him trying to turn Daenerys against him – and gods knew that wouldn’t need much convincing – or them….

He felt the sudden, irresistible urge to hit something.

So, he did.

The wooden table next to him suffered his wrath. He slammed his fist onto the surface, the pile of papers on the top jumping and the flask of ale he’d left over last night toppling over, falling onto the floor with a loud clink. Then the room fell silent.

Someone else would’ve been petrified by his display of anger but Sam knew him. He barely flinched at Jon’s outburst. The King had his hands splayed out on the surface, knuckles throbbing with pain, his eyes fixed on the map blankly. His mind was running with ideas to deal with this problem, the bloodier the solutions, the better.

But Sam said, “This can wait, Jon. Your uncle is coming to King’s Landing today. Preparations are being made. The last thing we need is for you to kill one of your men on such an occasion.”

He only allowed Sam to call him Jon. He hated that name because it was a lie, a burden he’d carried for years, something that brought him nought but shame. Sometimes, though, he liked hearing it. Just from Sam. To remind himself of the man he was before all of this – the power, the glory, the responsibilities – and to make sure that he’d never be that person again.

“You’re right,” Jon complied, even if he was still fuming, “Gendry can wait.”

“I still don’t understand why you brought her here. You knew this would happen eventually. She’s sweet, kind and from that one conversation I had with her, very naïve. She can be persuaded into many things. She can be _used_.” Sam sighed. “You knew people would use her against you, you had to know, so why not let her be in Dragonstone? She never wanted to come here anyway. She was never going to be a problem, you made her one.”

Jon clicked his tongue. “You know I hate it when people question my decisions?”

Sam scoffed. Were he any other man, Jon would’ve had his hand wrapped around his throat to choke the life out of him for even daring to mock him. But again, this was Sam. He kept Jon grounded by daring to question his motives. “Tell me why you brought her here,” he demanded once more, “you had no reason to. That poor girl wants nothing to do with the Targaryen name.”

“It’s complicated,” Jon muttered.

How could he tell him about it? How could he possibly explain the visions to Sam—the dreams he’d been having?

Jon knew Daenerys’ face before he even saw her.

She came to him on stormy nights after he had a drink too many, she came to him in visions he saw in the flames. She was haunting him for months now. In the beginning, Jon brushed it off as something insignificant. Sure, he may have had strange visions in the past, and some of them might’ve turned out to be true but a lot of Targaryens were known for prophetic dreams, and they were never too significant for him to be concerned.

But the visions with Daenerys were different.

He wouldn’t know how to explain it. _He_ barely understood it, so how would Sam? The dream was always the same, every detail was always intact. He’d dreamed of her so many times that he learned her face by heart, without knowing who she was, whether she was real or a very realistic fragment of his imagination. Her small nose, her amethyst eyes which changed depending on the lighting, her hair as pale as moonlight and as wild as waves in a tempestuous sea, her smile, the sound of her voice. Her mouth. Everything. He knew everything about her.

He was so spooked about this woman appearing in his mind every other night that he thought he was going mad. Perhaps he was finally snapping, losing his sense of reality, perhaps he could no longer differentiate between reality and fiction, becoming a delusional mess like Aerys was.

Jon had called in a priestess to help him out.

Her name was Melisandre. She had red hair and a seductive smile. And seduced Jon certainly was. Who could blame him? She was gorgeous. But even if he’d fallen right into her trap one night, allowing them both to experience the pleasure they silently sought in suggestive glances, he didn’t forget what he’d asked her presence for.

“She’s always here,” he told her that night, letting his head fall onto his palms. If he closed his eyes, he could see a flash of silver gold. His head was throbbing. “It’s always the same dream too. It’s so _real_. It’s like…a vision. Of something that will happen. Perhaps something I need to stop?”

“She has a name. It’s Daenerys.”

Jon froze, his head turning to Melisandre who had a lazy smile on her face. _Daenerys._ It sounded so familiar to her. “Rhaegar’s sister,” he mumbled in realisation, “the one in Dragonstone?”

“You were always meant to find her,” Melisandre nodded at him. “Two parts of a greater whole.”

“No,” Jon said, chuckling, “I told my grandmother to stay away from me. And to keep Daenerys away from me. I don’t want them here.”

“You’re right, you do not want her here. You _need_ her here,” she said with a hearty laugh and he wanted to cut her head off for finding his torment amusing. “She needs you too.”

“I don’t need anyone,” he growled at her.

Melisandre touched his face softly. He scowled but didn’t pull away. “You have to find her,” she told him fiercely, staring into his eyes, “You both have the blood of the dragon.”

“What does that mean?” Jon turned his head away from her, scoffing. “I’m no fool, I don’t believe in prophecies.” Most Targaryens did, and look where they were now: dead.

“You may not believe in it and you don’t have to. But, you asked for my help. And this is my help—bring Daenerys Targaryen here. You’ll see for yourself.” Mel touched his face again, forcing him to look into her bright eyes. “If you don’t, the dreams will never stop. They’ll get worse, Aegon, they’ll eat you alive, torment you, drive you insane.”

He did not scare easy but he had to admit, he felt a shiver run down his back at her words. “Is she a danger to me?” Jon had asked.

Melisandre pursed her lips. “Do you ever see the end of the vision?”

“No. Only bits and pieces I told you about.” They were all jumbled up in his brain and didn’t make much sense if he thought too hard about them. But _she_ was in all of them. Always.

She trailed her fingers down his jaw. “Then your destiny has yet to be written. But one thing is for certain, you need to find her.”

This time, he stood up, needing to be away from this woman. Needing to breathe and think rationally. “What if I don’t? Are you certain I can’t just ignore it? Will it not go away?”

“If you truly believed it was as simple as that,” the priestess declared, her blood-stained lips tipping in a smirk, “then you would’ve never called me here.”

“What can be so complicated about it?” Sam asked him, frowning.

“Daenerys is not the problem here,” he snapped at his friend instead, diverting away from the topic that rattled him too much to speak about, “Gendry is. And we will take care of him soon.”

* * *

“My King, I regret to inform you that Lord Stark will be late. The weather was not on his side. He will be here tomorrow, though.”

Jon exhaled through his nose. Ever since he’d heard about Gendry, his mood had significantly darkened. He didn’t wish to be here, sitting at a stupid council meeting, with Gendry guarding the door. He would much rather be watching him begging for mercy as he prepared his sword to—

“Your Grace?”

He looked at the messenger who held the scroll and waved his hand dismissively. “Thank you. Make the necessary changes. We’ll have the tourney tomorrow,” he told him.

“A tourney?” Sam asked. “Perhaps a feast would be enough.”

“A feast sounds boring,” Jon said.

“Do we even know what he wants?” Lord Cayle asked. “Ned Stark has never travelled South. Not once since King Aegon was crowned. This seems very peculiar.”

Jon was also curious about this. His scroll didn’t give much away, he only said it was an important matter that he wished to discuss with the King himself. But Jon longed to see his mother’s brother—he always wondered what he looked like.

And, after all, he had some unfinished business to take care of.

“Perhaps for a marriage proposal,” Sam suggested with a shrug, “his daughter, Sansa, is young and unmarried.”

The idea was comical to Jon. “Marry a Stark? I will either die of boredom or I’ll have her thrown in the dungeons by the end of the night,” he snorted.

Everyone in the room exchanged worried glances.

Jon sighed. “It’s a joke. I’m not killing anyone.”

… _Yet._

“And Ned Stark is too honourable for that,” he added. To want his daughter to marry someone like him, to want his daughter to marry her cousin.

“It would be best if we know what he wants beforehand,” Sam said seriously, ignoring the King’s jabs at the Starks’ undeterred sense of duty, “so we know how to deal with it.”

Jon said nothing. _You don’t have to worry about this, my dear Sam._ Why did it matter what his uncle was coming here for, or what he wanted?

Jon knew what _he_ wanted from this meeting. That was enough.

* * *

He found that he couldn’t look at Daenerys the same way anymore.

There she stood, as pretty as ever, an otherworldly vision in a blue gown. She had her head bowed shyly, something he noticed she did a lot around him – perhaps to avoid eye contact, perhaps because he scared her. Her fingers were intertwined in front of her, her thumb rubbing over her knuckles anxiously.

In the beginning, he looked at her like the woman Melisandre described to him, his other half, the one whose destiny was looped with his. Now all he saw was someone who lied to him, someone who was being fooled by a once bloody worthless sellsword whose life Jon made better.

When he looked at her now, he couldn’t see all of the greatness Mel spoke of. Yet, he saw it the day before. When it was just the two of them in that room, when her beauty outshone every art piece he ever collected. He felt it, the connection between them. It was electric and hot, dangerous and reassuring at the same time.

He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anyone, perhaps even _anything_ , else in his life. And he would’ve had her, if only fucking Gendry hadn’t stepped in.

“My King,” she said in that intoxicatingly sweet voice of hers, curtsying like the perfectly good and loyal lady she was.

Jon didn’t rise from the Throne. “I’m afraid there have been changes to our plan, Daenerys. Ned Stark will not be arriving today but on the morrow.”

Daenerys raised her head. “Oh,” she said, licking her lips, “then I shall take your leave and—”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Jon said, “we have spare rooms. You can sleep here for tonight.”

Daenerys was not expecting his offer. Her eyes widened a bit. “You want me to stay here?” she asked softly.

Jon smiled. “That would make me happy, yes.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Gendry twitch restlessly. Just because he could, and he wanted to, Jon then added, “and you will dine with me tonight.”

He watched as Daenerys’ expressive violet eyes changed, from confusion to something akin to anxiousness. She bit on her lower lip, something she did a lot when she was nervous, turning it redder than it normally was. Nodding, Daenerys accepted his offer. Not that she had a say in the matter. “I would be happy to join you,” she said, “my King.”

“Someone will gladly escort you to a free bedchamber,” Jon said then hummed pensively as his eyes darted across all the men and guards who stood around the room.

Gendry looked at him expectantly, even presumptuously taking a step in Daenerys’ direction. Jon’s lip twitched. _Not so fast._ “Edd,” Jon finally said, “would you help Daenerys find a suitable room?”

Gendry stopped moving, remaining glued to his place. Edd went ahead to guide Daenerys out. The silver-haired girl glanced in Gendry’s direction, a subtle but still noticeable movement which annoyed Jon to his very core. Gendry’s brow furrowed just the slightest. _If I have it my way,_ Jon thought darkly, _you’ll never breathe the same air as her._ His blue eyes met the King’s, questioning. _If I have it my way, you’ll never breathe—at all._

And, obviously, Jon always had things his way.

* * *

He had a dress sent to her.

He had no idea why he did. But he didn’t need a reason, anyway, he could did as he pleased. A part of him wished to believe that this was an act of kindness, him being a good host, and his way of apologising for everything that happened so far— _sorry I took you away from your mother and your home, here’s a beautiful gown._

That seemed like a better scenario in his head pre-execution.

That night, she came to him as easily as she used to come in his dreams, which, surprisingly enough, all stopped the moment he’d met her. Like Melisandre promised.

Jon had dinner brought to his quarters. Daenerys was accompanied by one of his guards who knocked three times, as the King had requested, before letting Daenerys come alone.

She slipped through the door like a phantom.

Gods be good.

Jon stopped breathing when he saw her. For a good ten seconds, his lungs simply ceased to function. She moved shyly, hesitantly. She looked so small and fragile; he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to protect her – which was a crazy thought, he never had this instinct for anyone in his whole life – or ruin this innocence, make her his in the most primal of ways.

She had braided her hair, but a few rebellious strands fell down the sides of her face as curly waves of silver. And the _dress._ He wanted to see her in Targaryen colours. He didn’t know why, didn’t care why, but ever since he met her, he noticed that Daenerys almost never wore anything black or red.

It was as if she was constantly hiding from that identity, perhaps she loathed it.

Now she stood in a dress as dark and red as blood. The silky material hugged her curves like a second skin, the neckline plunged between her breasts, leaving a lot more milky-white skin on display than her usual modest dresses did. The whole outfit was intricately tied by her waist, with black laces and belts.

He knew it would be easy to tug at them, snap them, tear them and let the dress fall away.

“Your Grace,” she greeted him, wetting her lips, “I have to thank you for the dress. It’s—more beautiful than anything I’ve ever worn in my life.” She sounded sincere, this time, her voice wasn’t that usual blank, autonomous tone she used when she was just saying things to please him. She sounded like she meant every word, like she truly felt beautiful in this. And she was, _gods_ , she was.

“Aegon,” he said, to which she met his eyes puzzlingly, “I want you to call me by my name tonight, okay?”

She nodded once.

“Come, Daenerys. Have a seat and we shall eat.”

She looked nervous but listened to what he said. _Perhaps she’s afraid I’ve found out about Gendry._ But she need not worry, Jon was not going to bring that up, not that night, he didn’t wish to ruin his mood.

Plus, he had the Starks to worry about. Once he was done with his uncle, he’d take care of Gendry and _then,_ maybe, Daenerys would have every reason to be scared of him.

“This is—wow,” she breathed out, causing Jon to stare at her in puzzlement. “I’ve never seen so much food in my life.”

Frankly, Jon was a very indecisive person. Thank the gods that being King means one can get away with not being able to make a choice. So, he chose everything—from soft boiled-eggs to ribs roasted in a crust of garlic and herbs to sweet pumpkin soup, he had ensured that their dinner would be the most diversified possible.

She sat across from him and he enjoyed the view. The room was dimly lit with candles and the faint glow of the fire clung to her skin, making her look ethereal. Before he even sat down, Jon took a healthy gulp of Dornish wine. This night was going to be long, for he’d never been with someone he desired so badly but was also so sceptical of.

Melisandre spoke of prophecies and destinies. She claimed that they were meant to be together to ‘remake the world’. Jon had no idea what that meant then, and still no idea what it meant now.

All he knew about was the vision. The vision that was still incomplete.

“There are two ways that vision can end,” The red-haired sorceress had told him before she left court, “you must lead her to the right choice. Make her choose you.”

“How do I do that?” he asked. He had a few ideas of torture in mind.

But Melisandre gave him a stern look. “You cannot _force_ her to do it. It has to be by her own will. The only thing you can do is pave the path for her to make that choice, the right choice.” She smiled at her, “Daenerys Stormborn will either be your downfall or your biggest victory. But it is written now, it must happen. You cannot escape fate.”

Jon wanted her dead at first.

She couldn’t be his downfall if she wasn’t alive, right? Mel didn’t have to know that. He could send someone else to do it. It wouldn’t be escaping fate if an unfortunate accident happened to her, right? How would the gods know?

But then he’d seen her for the first time and realised that he _couldn’t_ do it. He could not kill her—killing came easy to him, as twisted as that was, he had no trouble doing it. Sometimes, he even enjoyed it way too much. But there was something about Daenerys, the way she looked at him, the way she was…he knew that day that Melisandre was right. He couldn’t escape fate, he could not kill her.

He needed her to make the right choice.

But _how_?

Daenerys began with the honeyed chicken. He gauged her expression carefully. She let out a moan, which was probably involuntary, and the sound went straight to his cock. “This is so good,” she said.

“It’s one of my favourites,” he said.

She smiled a bit.

Jon inwardly sighed. It was hard to interact with her, she always looked like she wished to disappear into thin air when he was around. Was he truly that scary?

“Try the wine,” he suggested, smiling.

She glanced at him unsurely before looking down at her goblet. “I don’t really drink,” she admitted.

 _Of course, you don’t,_ he wanted to say. Gods, how many things had Rhaella kept her from? In wanting to protect her, her mother seemed to have sheltered her to a point that she became as brittle as a porcelain vase on the edge of a table, waiting to fall and break. But when he looked into her eyes—he saw nothing breakable there.

Daenerys was fire, too, but she got so good at hiding it, pushing it away and repressing it that now she was a dying flame, flickering to an inevitable end.

He wanted to reignite her.

“Give it a taste,” he pressed, “if you hate it, you can just stop drinking.”

She trapped her lower lip between her pearly white teeth – _nervousness_ – and finally grabbed the goblet, bringing the edge to her mouth. Jon watched, amused, as she took her first sip. Her brows shot up, crinkles forming in her forehead as she swallowed. “It’s strong,” she commented, licking her lips.

They ate in silence for a long moment after that, with only her complimenting the food every now and then. Jon agreed to some and disagreed on some of her opinions – he personally hated the stew, but she insisted it was very good.

Daenerys really liked the wine. What started out as just ‘testing’ it soon turned into generous sips after every bite of something she had. Soon, she refilled her glass without even so much as a glance in his direction. This greatly amused Jon, because she was always so fidgety around him, always looking at him for permission to do anything but the wine was loosening her reflexes without her even realising it.

They finished eating and Daenerys was on her third glass of wine for the night. He would’ve told her to slow down, but he was also on his third and she seemed to be taking it well, who was he to judge her?

When she finished that glass and put it on the table, Jon said, “you have something here.”

She met his eyes. “Where?” she touched her mouth, three fingers pressing onto her lips but he shook his head. She wasn’t getting it.

He reached across the table, used his thumb to wipe at the piece of food at the corner of her mouth. In the darkness, in the silence, he heard her breath hitch when his finger made contact with her soft skin. He leaned back into his chair, noticing that the air had changed between them—it was heavier now. With a languid smile, he brought his thumb to his mouth and hummed, “it was the chicken.”

Daenerys gulped visibly. She didn’t look scared, he realised with growing interest, the dark glint in her eyes was something else entirely. She looked at him just like that in the sculpture room, when his lips touched hers.

Jon gazed at her. “Tell me something.”

“What?”

“Tell me something you’ve never told anyone, not even your mother.”

She blinked owlishly at him. Chortled nervously. “I don’t think I’ve ever kept anything from my mother,” she said.

He watched her face closely. The wine had gotten to her, the apples of her cheeks were pinker in colour, her lips were cherry red from both the drink and the way she constantly gnawed on her bottom lip. Her dress had shifted a bit near the neckline, exposing more of her right shoulder. The orange light from the candles illuminated the pale skin of her throat, a light coat of sweat making it shine, and Jon took notice of her stuttering pulse. He wanted to put his mouth on it. “Try…there must be something.”

She probably would not have answered were she sober. But drunk Daenerys frowned very hard, concentrated equally as much, then her eyes grew wide. “There’s something _strange._ ”

Now he was intrigued. “Do tell me.”

“I can’t,” she said quietly, still chewing on that bottom lip of hers and he wanted to tell her stop because it was getting highly distracting. “It’s weird.”

“Please, I insist.”

She inhaled deeply. “Okay. I really like fire.”

Jon blinked at her and couldn’t stop himself from chuckling.

She sighed, looking dejected. “I knew it was stupid, forget it,” she slurred the words, reaching for the bottle of wine again.

“No, no, that’s enough for tonight,” he decided, snatching the bottle from her hand. She pouted like a child. “And I want you to tell me more. About the fire thing.”

Daenerys shook her head stubbornly. “It’s crazy.” She giggled to herself, clearly too intoxicated to still be afraid of him now.

“I know crazy,” he said, smiling at her, _I like crazy,_ “tell me, Daenerys.”

She looked into his eyes and said, “I don’t know. I always found it fascinating. And I’ve always liked warm stuff. I feel like heat doesn’t bother me. I used to bathe in water so hot it should burn my skin off but it didn’t, at all, and then my mother would get upset or confused so, I tried not to tell her about these things because I knew they’d creep her out and—and gods, I’m speaking too much, aren’t I?”

She truly was. He was used to quiet and shy Daenerys, but he also liked this one. This very intoxicated Daenerys’ word vomit was interesting for him. “I have an idea,” he said and stood up.

Jon realised he was drunk too, for he swayed a bit, his stability only returning moments later. He rounded the table to stand before her and extended his arm for her to take. She stared at his palm and then got up, stumbling more than he had, and laughing, so he held onto her hand tightly as he guided her across his bedchamber to the candles on the wall.

Daenerys stared at them, then glanced at him. “What?” she asked bluntly.

He quirked a brow. “Do it. Whatever you feel like doing with fire.”

She looked befuddled. “I’ll just hurt myself,” she exclaimed, “It’s _fire_.”

“It’s fine,” he coaxed her, “I’m here.” To prove his point, he moved closer to her, just behind her.

Daenerys smelled of jasmine and melted honey. He tried hard not to stare at the way her breasts pressed against the thin material of her dress with every breath she took. She raised her hand, reaching out to the fire. Even standing a foot away from the candle, Jon could feel the heat of it. Daenerys didn’t seem phased as she moved her hand closer to the flame. She moved further and further—until even Jon could not comprehend how she was still going. His eyes snapped to her face, which remained impassive, not even a sign of discomfort or pain, her plump lips parted, her eyes staring into the fire as if under a spell. Her breathing quickened as her hand got closer.

“Daenerys,” he whispered in amazement.

Her fingers were _in_ the fire now and Jon’s heart might’ve stopped beating. The flames danced around her slender digits, wrapping around her pale skin like veins. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. She kept it there for a few more seconds, longer than what it would take to burn someone.

Then she gasped, pulling away, as if snapping out of her trance.

She turned to him, amethyst eyes wide. “I…I…” She couldn’t finish her sentence.

He grabbed her hand, turned her palm up so he could inspect it. There was no damage on her skin. He ran his own fingers over her palm, across the tips of her fingers which were _burning_ hot but not injured. “You’re immune to fire,” he said slowly, eyes moving back to hers. Her own were already on his, staring at him like she’d seen a ghost. “I knew you were different,” he whispered. The dreams made sense, suddenly, because if he was no ordinary man, then neither was she. _Two parts of a greater whole._

“I don’t understand,” she whispered, “this is impossible.”

With her hand still in his, the candles burning low, her gaze locked onto his, Jon felt an insurmountable amount of desire hit him. What she’d just showed him aroused him more than it frightened him, which probably said a lot about him. He could sense the electric tension again and knew she felt it too. She had to.

“You’re magic,” he said.

She chuckled, then shook her head. “I’m not. I’m the most normal person I know. This is so crazy. I feel light-headed.”

“Your hair,” he murmured, his free hand coming up to touch her braid. He trailed his forefinger down until he reached the tail which was hanging next to her forearm. “It’s prettier when you let it down,” he said, his fingertip leaving the soft silver strands to trail down her arm.

Gooseflesh erupted all along her skin. She shivered. He smiled, “is that because of fear or…,” he trailed off and leaned in closer to her, watching keenly as her eyes fell on his lips. “Or desire?”

Daenerys didn’t answer but licked her lips, eyeing him like she was hungry still. But not for food. “Tell me, Daenerys,” he spoke against her ear now, letting his lips brush against the shell, her little gasp sending shock waves to his hardening cock, “is it fright or want that you feel for me right now?”

“I don’t know,” she mumbled.

He chuckled lowly, dragging his mouth across her jawline. Her skin was so soft, and she smelled so good. This wasn’t part of his plan tonight and a part of him knew that he had no reason to be doing this at all, given the fact that she’d been lying to him, meeting with one of his men behind his back.

He had all the reasons in the world to punish her. Perhaps lock her in a cell so no one else could ever interact with her—and let her know that she was _his._

But desire was clouding his mind and he was only a man, after all.

“Yes, you know,” he said, stopping before her lips, making her wait for it. She squeezed his hand, leaning forward. He leaned back. She shared his impatience, it seemed. “I need you to tell me.”

He could not help himself so, he pressed a kiss to her trembling bottom lip, the one she’d been anxiously chewing on the entire night. It was warm, soft and moist. He wanted to wrap his lips around it, pull it between his teeth. He wanted to feel her lips on other parts of him, she wanted to put _his_ lips on other parts of _her_. She let out a little whine at the contact, a sound so breathless and needy, like a kitten, it made him want to take her right then and there. On the floor, against the wall.

He pulled away, though, and chuckled at the sound of disappointment she made. “I’ll need words, Daenerys, I want you to tell me what you need. Can you do that?”

She looked up at him, her eyes darkened with lust. “I don’t know what I need,” she breathed out, “I-I want you to—” she gave up midway through, lowering her head, blushing.

“Do you want me to stop?” He would.

“No,” her answer was immediate, and he laughed.

“Do you want me to kiss you?” he asked gently.

Daenerys looked at him through her eyelashes, nodding bashfully.

He tipped her chin up so he could press his lips against hers. He did it softly at first then moved his lips slowly. Daenerys’ kisses were gentle and unsure, like she didn’t have much experience in this. He was too bloody drunk to care how many men she’d kissed before, and soon their kisses turned sloppier, his hands leaving her own so he could wrap his arms around her small waist, pulling her body to his.

Daenerys moaned when her chest pressed up against his. She brought her hands up to his neck hesitantly, like she needed to be guided through this. He opened his mouth under hers and licked the seam of her lips, wanting, no, _needing_ to taste her fully. Daenerys followed his lead, opened her mouth for him, allowed his tongue to caress hers in languid, desperate kisses.

She tasted of the wine they drank together, but her taste was more addictive than any alcoholic drink he might’ve had in his life. He could drink from her mouth for an eternity and never grow bored.

When he was satisfied with tasting her sweet mouth, he started kissing along her neck, pulling their bodies flush together and felt her hardened nipples against his chest. He ditched the royal attire tonight and settled for a thin white tunic. Jon dragged a hand up to her throat, wrapping his large hand around her neck and tilting her head back so he could have access to her milky throat. He walked them back to his bedchamber, all while peppering her face and neck with kisses. When he lay her down on his bed, he pulled away to take a breath.

 _Gods,_ she was divine. Her hair draped across his sheets like a river of silver and gold, her lips bruised from his kisses, cheeks tainted the same colour and eyes glazed over with lust.

She looked good enough to devour. So, he went back to his feast.

Kissing along the column of her throat, his other hand caressing her sides. Daenerys moaned when he bit on the junction between her shoulder and neck then soothed it with a lick. Her hands were raking up and down his back, nails digging into his clothed skin.

Due to how excessively she reacted to his touch and kisses, Jon guessed she was either faking it, which seemed very unlikely because of how eagerly she was trying to return his kisses and how her hands were trembling, or no one had ever kissed her and touched her like this before.

At the thought, he detached his mouth from her skin, hovering above her writhing form. She looked up at him, eyes questioning, impatient, wanton. “Has anyone ever touched you like this?” he asked softly.

Daenerys took a moment but then shook her head slowly.

He was stunned by her answer.

“So,” he said, dragging his right hand up across her stomach until he reached the underside of her right breast. She gasped and leaned into his touch. He felt the weight of her tit, squeezing the flesh, watching as she shut her eyes, “no one has ever made you feel good before?”

This time, her answer was vocal. But her voice was shaky. “No.”

“Not even yourself?”

“…No.” She sounded unsure that this was a possibility.

Jon sighed raggedly, knowing he couldn’t have her. He could, actually, he could have anything he wanted. But Daenerys was drunk and so was he. He thought this could be a casual fuck they wouldn’t care about the following day, but this was her _first time._

He should not care about this, she wanted it too, but he knew she would hate herself in the morning.

She would hate him, too, more than she already did. He had no idea why that bothered him so much, why he was so worried about accidentally hurting her because he was aware that he wasn’t the gentlest of lovers.

 _Lover._ That was not a word any of the women he’d fucked would use to describe him, surely, and yet, he knew that was what Daenerys needed. Someone to go slow, make the night special, take care of her. He was not that man. He never would be.

Again, he knew he should not care. But he couldn’t bring himself to be cruel to her—he took away so much from her already, he could not also take this.

If she was sober, she would never be on his bed moaning for him. She would be looking for ways to escape even a conversation with him.

But when he took his hand away from her breast, Daenerys let out a helpless sound. He watched as she squeezed her thighs together, her face contorted in discomfort. “I need…,” she began but never finished. Didn’t know how to.

“A release,” he told her.

Daenerys nodded frantically. “Please,” she whispered.

He clenched his teeth. Hard. His self-restraint was not his strongest quality. And, gods, how was it fair on him to do what he knew was right when she was writhing and _begging_ for him, her big amethyst eyes filled with so much need he wanted nothing more but to give in? How was any of this fair?

There was an alternative. “You want me to show you?” he asked, “you want me to show you how to feel good?”

Her answer came right away. “Yes.”

He swallowed. “Take off your dress.”

Daenerys, still breathing heavily, sat up on the bed and managed to slither out of her dress, letting the silk pool down to her waist. Jon’s eyes went to her perfectly rounded breasts. He knew they would fit perfectly in his hands. His cock throbbed at the sight of her pebbled rosy nipples, begging to be touched, begging to be in his mouth. She brought her hands to her breasts, covering them.

“Lie down,” he instructed, and she did. “Touch your breasts. Pinch them, tell me how that feels.”

He lay next to her, his head propped up on his hand supported by his elbow as he watched her play with herself. Daenerys lightly tugged at her erect nipples, moaning lowly at the sensation. “How does it feel?” he asked.

“Sensitive,” she answered.

He grabbed her left hand, pried it away from her teat and brought her fingers to his mouth. Daenerys gasped when he sucked on two of her fingers, swirling his tongue around them. He imagined doing this to her breasts instead. Letting them go with an obscene pop, he said, “now touch them again.”

She looked at him puzzlingly.

“Trust me,” he encouraged her.

Daenerys brought her moist fingers to her nipple and her back arched at the feeling. He smiled, “that feels good, right?”

She hummed, too entranced in toying with the tight, swollen peaks.

“Keep your left hand on your breast,” he said, “and bring your right hand down your stomach.”

She trailed her fingers across her skin, a path he wanted to re-enact with his tongue.

“Take your dress off completely and anything underneath.”

Daenerys listened to his every word, like she was being hypnotised by his voice, her body surrendering to him. He took a moment to admire her body, she was so beautiful it knocked the breath out of him. His hands were itching to grab onto her, leave red prints all over her flawless, untainted skin. He didn’t know if he should be mad that no one had ever pleasured her before or, selfishly enough, happy that _he_ was the first one to see all of this, to help her make herself feel good.

He could smell her arousal and thought to himself, _people call me mad but_ this _is what madness feels like; resisting her is the true meaning of insanity._

Her fingers drifted between her legs. Her mouth parted at her discovery.

“What do you feel?” he rasped, not sure if he wanted to know, not sure if he could hold himself back with her looking at him like this, like she would do anything to have his touch instead of her own.

“It’s sticky— wet. And warm,” she whispered to him, sounding so innocent it physically pained him.

Jon dropped his head on the mattress, groaning softly. “Gods, Daenerys, the things you’re doing to me right now.”

“Can you kiss me again?” she asked demurely.

This was it, he was going to fucking die.

He shook his head. “If I kiss you again, I won’t be able to stop.”

“I don’t want you to stop,” she said the words quickly, whining softly, “I want—I need—”

“Shh, you’re just too drunk to care,” he whispered to her, knowing that if she kept begging like this he would cave, “Just…touch yourself. Rub your cunt for me.”

Her hand muscles flexed as she played with herself and soon, wet sounds filled the air around them, the tangy-sweet smell of her making his mouth water. Daenerys’ back arched as she kept touching herself, little mewls and moans slipping past her lips every now and then.

“Find your clit,” he whispered against her ear, hot breath fanning over his skin as he listened and watched her grind herself against her hand, “and rub it in small circles.”

“How do I— _oh._ ”

He chuckled, “yes, that’s it. It feels good, doesn’t it?”

“So good,” she choked out, eyes screwed shut, her stomach hollowed.

“You’re going to come, aren’t you?” he inquired softly.

She turned her head to the side, their faces inches apart, and she stared into his eyes when she whispered the word ‘yes’ to him and they came together in a passionate kiss. Teeth clashed, tongues slid over one another and Jon swallowed her cry when she came, shuddering.

He broke off the kiss a few seconds later. Daenerys dropped her head back onto his mattress, breathing heavily. He waited for her to come down from her high before suggesting she should get dressed and head back to her room since it was late. Daenerys could barely hold herself up on her feet without wobbling around, and he knew he made the right decision by not giving into the temptation.

He would have her. But she would be sober for it, aware of every single thing he would do to worship her body—and know that no one else would be able to make her feel the same.

* * *

“Jon, we need to speak.”

The King made a sound of acknowledgement to Sam’s voice as he looked through the armours that he had sent to his bedchamber to choose from for the ceremony. To welcome Ned Stark to King’s Landing.

“First of all, Sam, which one do you think screams ‘I’m going to kill you’?” he asked casually, pointing at the crimson red armour and the black one.

“What?!”

Jon whistled, “calm down. It was merely a question. So, which one?”

“Jon,” he deadpanned, “ _you_ alone scream ‘I’m going to kill you’.”

Jon smiled. “That’s reassuring. Black it is.” He then focused on his friend, crossing his arms. “What is it that you wish to say?”

“I just wanted to make sure you understand what today’s aftermath will be like were you to…do anything to Ned. Tournaments are the best place to plan rebellions.”

Jon waited.

Sam sighed. “The North remembers. Ever heard of that? They won’t forgive easily if you harm Eddard and you know they might be the kingdom to hate you the most.”

“Really? I really thought that was Dorne.”

“Jon, be serious.”

“Alright,” Jon sighed, “I understand.”

“We do not want war with them.”

“Right.” Jon nodded. “But between wanting to avoid war and getting the satisfaction of revenge, I think you know my priorities.”

Sam looked at him pleadingly. “Maybe he’s coming to ask for forgiveness.”

“I promise you Sam, that if Eddard Stark asks for forgiveness, nothing bad will happen today,” Jon assured him. He meant it too.

Sam frowned. “And if he doesn’t? The Northerners are a stubborn bunch.”

“Then,” Jon said, smiling slowly, “I hope he has a death wish.”

* * *

He hadn’t seen _her_ again since the previous night. It was hard to forget about it, he was pretty sure he would never forget about the way her mouth tasted or the way she brought herself to an orgasm just next to him. When he awoke with a migraine, he thought perhaps he’d dreamed of it.

And then, he saw her at the tourney. She was dressed in a dark purple gown. Her hair was down again and, for a second, he entertained the thought that she let it down because he told her he liked it that way.

Everyone rose when Jon joined them outside, in the yard where everything was set up for the tournament. Daenerys met his eyes, her cheeks flushed pink and then she glanced away, never to gaze into his direction again, and he knew that she remembered what happened.

“King Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of His Name, welcomes all of you to this special tournament hosted in Eddard Stark, the Lord of Winterfell’s honour,” Sam Tarly spoke.

Just as Jon began to wonder where the man in question was, the galloping of horses was heard. Jon watched attentively as Northern banners began to appear in the arena, carried by men dressed in Stark armours.

It was the first time Jon was seeing his uncle, but he knew which one he was right away. His face, albeit old, was long and sharp. He had grey eyes, long brown hair that fell past his neck. His trimmed beard was greyish white, ageing him by a few more years. He had a sullen look on his face. He got off his horse and the people in the arena held their breaths as the King walked down the stadium to greet him where he stood in the fighting area. Ned observed Jon’s face as he approached, taking him in. “My King,” he bowed.

“Lord Stark,” Jon acknowledged.

Eddard cracked a tentative smile. “My nephew,” he said softly. “We’re family, are we not?” He opened his arms to him.

Jon let the suspense last for a few seconds before he smiled back, allowing him to take him in his arms. _We’ll never be family._

“Ah, before we get carried away,” Ned said, pulling away from Jon, “allow me to introduce you to your cousin, Sansa Stark.”

Jon’s eyes flew to the girl who was standing by his side. She had long ginger hair with intricate decorations in it, her pretty grey dress full of patterns of wolves. She looked very pretty and innocent. If Jon could, he would almost feel bad for what she was going to see that day, how quickly her small smile would disappear from her face.

“My lady,” Jon greeted her politely, took her hand for a kiss, “it’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise, Your Grace.” She curtsied, blue eyes twinkling.

Jon placed a hand on his uncle’s shoulder. “We’ll get back to this family reunion later, let’s enjoy the tourney, shall we?”

He wasn’t a liar. He did allow them to enjoy the tournament. They were his guests, after all, and he liked to believe he was a good host.

Until he wasn’t.

Ned’s bannermen had wary looks on their faces as they took a seat for the events to begin.

Jon clapped thrice and the jousting began. It wasn’t as popular as the mêlée, and not as dangerous, but it was still enjoyable to watch. Jon didn’t recognise the two men against each other and frankly, he didn’t care. He was more focused on his uncle than the two knights sprinting at one other. The loser fell on the ground with a yell and a loud thud. He wasn’t dead, but he was definitely injured.

Injuries were common in tournaments, which was the reason why many did not wish to participate, as they would rather die on the battlefield than during a game. But there were still a few willing men—and some unwilling that knew they’d be met with the King’s sword if they play, so….

A sporty, upbeat tune was being played by the band and servants began distributing snacks and beverages to the guests. Jon was glad to see Ned smiling at a girl serving him grapes. This might be the last time he’d eat grapes—or any other food, really.

Unwittingly, Jon’s eyes kept tracking Daenerys. It should be hard to spot her but her golden-white hair stood out like a sore thumb. Gendry was always nearby, making Jon narrow his eyes at the man who watched Daenerys more than he watched himself.

The King found himself wondering if this fool thought he could protect Daenerys. If Jon wanted her dead, as he’d told her already, she would be dead by now. What was Gendry going to do about it? Cry? The only reason Daenerys was safe was because Jon _wanted_ her to be safe, he wondered if Gendry knew that and just liked playing the honourable idiot who would get himself killed soon.

Jon saw one of the servants going up to her and noticed how his aunt’s face lit up when she saw the girl. He realised they must’ve become friends. And he allowed himself to look at her smile for a few more seconds before turning back to the ongoing melee.

He was not very interested in the match, the sounds of metals clashing, armours colliding and men yelling were not very entertaining. He sipped on his red wine, toyed with the rings on his fingers and waited for it to be over. There was blood on the ground and over five men had to be carried out as they were unconscious.

Ned Stark seemed to have enjoyed it.

Jon was certain he was not going to enjoy this next bit.

He got up from his seat and descended the stairs so he could go in the arena. His guards followed him, but Jon signalled them to retreat. “I’ll be fine,” he said.

Eddard was eyeing him contemptuously.

“I just want to thank Lord Stark for having travelled so far and say that I hope he was thoroughly entertained,” Jon said aloud.

Ned got up, too, and came down to stand next to Jon. “Yes, I have, Your Grace.” He was smiling but Jon could say it was half-real at best. “And as you said, it was a long journey. In fact, I have come here for a very specific reason, to invite you to my daughter’s wedding.”

“Oh.” Jon’s brows shot up. “Sansa is getting married?” He glanced at the girl who was still seated, a nervous smile on her face.

“Yes, and we would be honoured to have you there with us. Your blessing would mean the world to both me and your cousin.”

Jon noticed how Ned kept emphasising on their familial relations as if trying to remind him that they were related, but only when it was beneficial for him. The young King did not remember his uncle showing this same support before.

“ _I_ would be honoured to join you for such a grand occasion.” Jon smiled coolly. “Speaking of family, uncle, do you remember Lyanna?”

Ned’s face blanched. A look crossed his eye but was gone the next second. “I…of course, I remember. She was my sister, after all.”

Jon ran his tongue along the insides of his teeth, maintaining the calm smile. “What do you remember of her? What’s the last thing you remember of her?”

Ned shifted. He was uncomfortable, _scared._ Jon could almost smell the fright coming off him—it was intoxicating. “I-I heard she died.” He swallowed. “It’s terrible, so terrible.”

“She died giving birth to me,” Jon said slowly, “it’s one of the only things I blame myself for.”

“It wasn’t your fault—”

“Of course, it wasn’t. But it wasn’t hers either, was it? She did not deserve to die. Did she?”

“No, no. Gods, no. Lyanna was sweet and kind-hearted and so strong, I know she fought until her last breath.”

Jon’s fists clenched at his sides. He did not want to hear about his mother’s strength and kindness, not from him. “But it wasn’t enough,” Jon bit back. “Jaime locked her in a tower, gave her less and less food every day, in hopes it would kill me. And when she gave birth, she did not get the medical attention she required. She bled to death in a cell, alone, crying, wishing _you_ were there.”

Ned blinked fast. “I-If I had known, I would’ve given up everything to be with my sister.”

Jon cocked his head to the side, watched as droplets of sweat dribbled down his uncle’s forehead. The heat wasn’t unbearable, but his lies were. “But you did know,” he said slowly.

Ned looked around him. “No, no I didn’t.”

Jon smiled and called for Sam. His best friend ran to him, bringing him the item he’d held the closest to his heart for all these years.

Ned’s eyes widened. “What is that?”

“A letter,” Jon replied. “That she left me before she died.”

He opened it, the paper had gotten old, the colours fading into a brownish-yellow, and it had crinkles all over it, but Jon could never bring himself to throw it away. He did not want to read the whole thing to Ned, didn’t think he deserved it, and frankly, he was afraid he’d end up crying. He never cried.

But he did read the important part: “ _I hope when you get this, you’ll be safe and sound in Winterfell, with my brother, Ned. I’ve managed to send him a letter. Three, actually, and he never responded but I know he got them. Deep in my heart, I know he’ll come for me, even if he does not like Rhaegar. But if you’re reading this right now – it means I could not be saved. But Ned must’ve saved you. He can be like your father, he will protect you like his own, I know he will. If you’re reading this, I want you to thank him for saving you when I couldn’t._ ”

Eddard was flabbergasted, his mouth opening and closing but not a coherent sentence was uttered. “It was…I….”

“You did get her letters, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but I—”

“You knew what was happening. You knew she was a prisoner. You knew she was pregnant, unwell. You never came for her.”

“It was too late.”

“Was it?” Jon took a threatening step forward. “Or did you not come _because_ she was pregnant with Rhaegar’s son?”

“I-I—” he stammered around a response before settling for, “I wanted to save my sister, I really did.” He sounded sincere.

“I know you did but you did not want to save me,” Jon declared. “You conspired with Jaime to overthrow the Targaryens, didn’t you?”

Ned looked away, his jaw locked.

Jon knew he hit the right nerve. “You wanted Rhaegar dead too, you were part of the whole thing. You wanted Jaime to be King, you didn’t want a Targaryen on the Throne, no matter if he was good or bad—”

“There are no good Targaryens,” Eddard roared.

_Ah, there it is._

The crowd around them went dead silent at his outburst.

“Yes, I was with Jaime. I stood by him as he planned to kill Aerys but Rhaegar took care of that for us. Then, I stood by him as he killed your father.” He was seething the words at Jon. “Targaryens have brought nought but fire and blood to Westeros and were proud of it. Was Rhaegar really good or would he lose his mind too? It had to end and I did what I had to do.” On a gentler note, he added, “Jaime promised he would free Lyanna. But when he found out she was carrying Rhaegar’s son, he told me that he had to take care of it.” A sob broke past his lips. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this, she was supposed to survive. We wanted to kill you, not her. Never her.”

“You wanted to kill a baby,” Jon snarled, “your sister’s baby. Someone innocent.”

“Innocent?” Ned laughed humourlessly. “You call _yourself_ innocent?”

“At the time, I was.”

“Sure. So was Rhaegar, wasn’t he? So beautiful and charming and valiant. But we all know what power would drive him to do. And we were right about wanting you dead, too, look at what you’ve done.” He waved his hands around.

“Maybe you were right,” Jon enunciated, lifting his left hand to call out for his men. Two of them came behind Ned, grabbed onto his arms. He did not even try to resist, only continued to glare at Jon. “Maybe there are no good Targaryens.”

“Father!” A screech erupted. Sansa got up and so did all the soldiers from the North.

“Do not bother,” Jon sighed, “you’re ten at most. I have no intentions of killing any of you, but if it comes down to it, we’ll be sending eleven corpses back to Winterfell instead of just one.”

The Northmen unsheathed their swords and Jon’s guards did the same.

“He’s right,” Ned said through his teeth, lowering his eyes in defeat, “no one else has to die. Lower your swords.”

“See, he’s smart.” Jon smirked.

“If you wanted to kill me,” Ned asked, “why didn’t you just come North?”

Jon hummed. “I don’t know. Guess I just don’t like the cold. I never intended to actively look for you and kill you, but, well, I can't miss out on the opportunity if I have it right in front of me. Do you want a prayer before you die? Unfortunately, we don’t have any godswood here. There are normal trees, though, you could close your eyes and pretend.”

Ned exhaled roughly. “Just don’t hurt Sansa. Please.”

The girl was thrashing against one of Jon’s guards who was holding her. Her beautiful hairstyle came undone, red curls fanning all over her face as she sobbed, pathetically, begging Jon to be merciful. Jon smiled. “Luckily for you, uncle,” he drawled, “I don’t hold children accountable for their parents’ mistakes.”

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” Ned said, “the past is behind us. I came here in peace. I can go back and never return.”

“You should’ve never shown your face to me in the first place,” Jon replied. “It was great knowing you, Lord Stark. Even for less than a day.”

As he brought Eddard to the execution block, murmurs began to spread across the place. Some people didn’t watch, some were brave enough to do it, children started crying. One last time, Jon looked for Daenerys. Gendry had gotten closer to her and she looked mortified. Jon glanced away, blinking to forget about the look of horror in her violet eyes. It didn’t matter, not now. “Any last words?” he asked as he adjusted his grip on his sword. He hadn’t beheaded someone in a while; he was getting a bit rusty.

“The North remembers,” Ned uttered as his head was pushed down on the block.

Sansa’s cries were so loud Jon barely heard the sharp metal run down across her father's neck.

He released a large puff of breath, bringing his fingers up to his cheek where Eddard’s blood had splattered on him. He wiped it away, looked at his decapitated head on the floor. He found that he felt nothing, not an ounce of sympathy or regret. Just…a void in his chest. The crowd began to disperse, shock written on every face.

“Clean it up,” Jon ordered.

He went to Sansa who had collapsed to the ground, weakly sobbing, her chest heaving with hiccups. He realised he felt more upset for this poor girl than the man he’d just murdered. “Y-you—” she choked on the words, swallowed, sniffed and then looked up into his eyes. Hers were icy cold. “You’re a _monster_ ,” she spat at him.

Jon had to ask, “am I still invited to the wedding?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, some of you guessed this would happen, I'm (not really) sorry. RIP Ned. 
> 
> Also, I just want to make it clear that there won't be some kind of redemption arc for Jon in this, if you're expecting him to become morally good in the end or as he falls in love with Dany, you'll be wrong, he's probably going to be a lil bit soft when it comes to Daenerys - even in some parts of this chapter you can see that - but he's not meant to be the good guy. There won't be many Jon POVs in this because I like keeping his thoughts mysterious, so I hope this was satisfactory. I feel more comfortable calling Jon, well, JON instead of Aegon but that's only because I'm more used to writing Jon than Aegon. Don't get it confused, he still hates the name in this :P
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts. Kudos are appreciated as well. xo


	6. Chapter 6

**vi. what you should, what you shouldn't**

She couldn’t breathe.

Daenerys had never seen someone _die_ before. Not even naturally, much less a beheading. She remembered not being able to watch when Jon had sliced that man’s hand off for having touched her because it was too much, the apprehension on his face, the tense air around them, the knowledge that it would happen any moment now and that it was partly her fault. She could not stomach it. This time was different—this time, he murdered someone in front of her. Not just her, but hundreds of noblemen and women, lords and ladies, knights and guards.

She couldn’t breathe.

But she watched it. Every second of it. The first time, she couldn’t, she told herself to look away because she knew she was too weak to watch silently as someone lost a limb. It was sick and torturous and, perhaps, if she looked away, she could pretend she had no part in it.

_She could not breathe._

She couldn’t when he had Eddard Stark taken to the block. She couldn’t when he asked him if he had any last words, and the man had whispered something to him, something no one else but Jon heard. It did not affect him, whatever Ned said, Jon just grabbed onto his sword and cut his head off. It was horrifying. Terrible. The worst thing she’d ever seen in her life.

“Look away,” Gendry had ordered next to her, not caring that he could be seen, wanting to protect her from this, she supposed.

She couldn’t look away. Mesmerised wouldn’t be a nice word, for there was nothing pleasant about it, but, yes, in a very peculiar way she felt entranced by it. The build-up of anticipation, the murmurs of will-he-won’t-he. But she knew the answer and so did everyone else. So, as mothers placed their hands over their children’s faces to cover up their eyes and even some men settled on dropping their gazes to their feet, Daenerys stared right ahead and watched as Ned’s head fell on the ground, gushes of blood splashing all over.

She couldn’t tell what she felt. She was numb. There were no tears in her eyes, no thoughts in her head. And then, Gendry was grabbing her hand, pulling her away and she followed him, Sansa Stark’s sobs echoing in her head.

“We need to go now. Quick. Before everything goes back to normal.”

Now that she was understanding what was happening, she inquired, “Where are you taking me?”

“To see someone,” Gendry answered curtly, “We need to be back by the time this dies down and he starts looking for you.”

Daenerys frowned but said nothing, quickening her steps to match his pace, letting him lead her across the courtyard, through quiet alleys, down some weird tunnels. “Where are we going?” she asked, having to stretch her arms out and feel around her because they were slowly but surely being surrounded by darkness. Suddenly, there was no longer a clear path and the walls were closing in on her.

Gendry had a solution to that. “Stay here,” he ordered, and she stopped moving.

“I remember placing the torch—ah, here.” And then, there was light.

Daenerys frowned. “Where are we going?” she asked again, more aware of what they were doing this time.

“I’m going to introduce you to someone,” he said and then added, “I think you’re ready.”

She blinked at him in confusion, but he was walking again so, she had no choice but to follow. The ground was wet as they got deeper into the secret passageway and in the distance, Daenerys spotted another torch. As they got closer, she realised it was a person. A bald man to be exact.

“Varys,” Gendry said.

_Varys? Who’s Varys?_

Daenerys stood awkwardly next to Gendry.

At first, the other man didn’t spare her a glance. He looked deeply troubled. “He did it, didn’t he?”

Gendry nodded. “Beheaded him.”

Varys cursed under his breath. “If only we’d known that he knew of Ned’s betrayal.”

“How could we know Lyanna wrote about it in her letter? You know him. He’s never let anyone else get their hands on his mother’s letter.” Gendry sighed regretfully. “It’s too late now. But we must move forward.”

“What’s going on here?” Daenerys asked loudly, not liking that she was being left in the dark, both literally and figuratively.

“So, you’re the other Targaryen,” Varys said, eyeing her up and down in a slow manner that made her uncomfortable. “You have all the traits.”

“But she’s not a Targaryen. Not truly. Isn’t that right, Daenerys?” Gendry proclaimed, turning to her for confirmation.

Daenerys’ mind flashed back to the previous night. Her touching the fire.

 _I knew you were different._ Jon’s voice. Smooth, calming, dangerous.

 _There are no good Targaryens._ Ned’s voice. Angry, definitive, scared. Dead.

“No,” she answered at last, repeating the words she’d grown up with, “I don’t consider myself to be one.”

Varys eyed her for a lengthy moment before he shrugged. “Gendry convinced me that you’re a good one. I trust him. But believe me, little girl, I have eyes all over this place. And my little birds will find out who you truly are in no time.”

She gulped, not knowing what that meant, but understanding the underlying threat. “What is going on here?” she repeated. “Who are you?”

“I was the master of whisperers to King Jaime,” Varys said, “Now…all you need to know is I’m a man looking to protect the realm.”

“Varys wishes to get Aegon off the Throne,” Gendry explained.

“What?” Her heartbeat picked up. This was a rebellion meeting? Did they not see what just happened to someone that betrayed Jon before he was even born? “Are you insane?” She turned to Gendry, her expression wild. “You kept warning me yourself about how dangerous he is! And now you want to be involved in this folly?”

“He is dangerous,” he insisted, “but we can’t live like this forever. In fear. Under a tyrant.”

“He will kill you when he finds out,” she spoke the truth as it was, “and he’ll have a great time doing it.”

“It’s worth the risk, Daenerys. You’ve only been here for a few weeks and have you seen how much horror he spreads? I’ve lived here my whole life, under his command! Is it so wrong to wish for freedom?” he asked her, sounding angry that she was not seeing it from his point of view.

Daenerys calmed down. “No, it’s not,” she replied in a calmer tone, “but it’s impossible.”

“It is difficult to overthrow a King, especially one as dangerous as ours. But it has happened before. Aerys was killed before he could burn the city. Rhaegar was killed before he could even be King and Jaime, we all know what happened to Jaime. We will not proceed foolishly,” Varys said.

“What can the two of you do?” Daenerys asked.

“It’s not just the two of us. Many people hate him, many will do whatever it takes to be free of him. Ned came to King’s Landing for this.”

“He said it was for Sansa’s wedding.”

“He needed a cover-up. But this was the main reason. We were supposed to get together here and discuss our future plans.” Varys gave a long, sad exhale. “And now he’s no longer with us.”

The irony of Ned being killed for something he did years ago while he was here to repeat the same thing was _almost_ funny to Daenerys.

“The other kingdoms will help us. Who wouldn’t want him dead?” Gendry spoke.

Daenerys felt lightheaded. She’d promised Aegon upon coming here that _this_ was exactly who she wasn’t: a traitor, someone plotting his death, a rebel. Yet, here she was.

“You’re the one with the most reasons to hate him,” Gendry said, placing a hand on her shoulder reassuringly.

She stared at him, not knowing what to say. Gendry had been there for her from the beginning, risking everything. He helped her communicate with her mother. He was a good man and this was a good cause.

_This was a good cause._

Foolish, perhaps, and extremely dangerous—but good. And she was a good person, wasn’t she? She was not like Jon.

She was not like him.

If she knew all of that, then, why did she feel like she was betraying someone she wasn’t meant to betray?

* * *

When they walked out, Gendry asked her to wait. “Are you okay?” he’d asked.

“About what?”

“What you saw. What Aegon did.”

“It was brutal,” she admitted. Gendry nodded but she wasn’t done. Slowly, uncertainly, she added, “was it not justified, though?”

Gendry looked back at her so fast she blinked in surprise. “What?” he asked.

Daenerys’ mouth felt dry suddenly. Was she wrong for thinking so? “Ned betrayed his sister, left her to die, wanted to kill an innocent child.”

“Daenerys, we’re speaking of Aegon. The man who cut people’s tongues out for calling him the wrong thing! The same man you watched cut an innocent man’s hand off. Does it matter if it was justified? Weren’t Ned’s actions justified too?”

When Gendry raised her voice, Daenerys kept quiet. He was right, Jon was certainly cruel. There was no way around this… _but_ were all of his actions terrible?

She also didn’t miss the fact that Gendry called the man who almost raped her innocent. _He’s right,_ she forced herself to believe, _he didn’t do anything. He can’t be guilty of a crime he did not commit._

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, inwardly cursing herself for trying to defend the King. What was she doing? He was the reason she was in this nightmare to begin with, she should feel no sympathy for him, she should find his every move wrong, evil, disastrous. And she did.

She had to.

“No, no. You have nothing to apologise for.” Gendry smiled at her softly, putting his hands on her shoulders for a reassuring squeeze. “We’re on the same side, I just want you to remember that.”

She would try to.

Gendry spoke to her gently, like she was a child in need of lecturing. “You need to act normal around him, alright? We can’t have him be suspicious. Go along with what he says, give him what he wants.”

_Give him what he wants._

An involuntary shudder coursed down her body. So far, she’d been successful in avoiding thinking of the previous night. She awoke this morning with the back of her skull throbbing with such a forceful pain she thought she hit it against something. And then, she emptied her stomach in the toilets, vomiting until she felt nauseous.

It was only after that that she began to recollect the memories from the previous night of the dinner with Aegon. They were in complete disarray in her head, the memories, just flashes of images. She remembered drinking wine with him, she remembered kissing him, and then she was putting her hand in fire for reasons that escaped her, she remembered it not hurting, and—and she remembered being naked on his bed, doing things he told her to do, pleasuring herself, moaning for him, kissing him…kissing him, _kissing him!_

“Daenerys?”

She startled.

Gendry looked at her with concern. “Are you alright? Where did you just go?”

“It’s nothing. Nothing at all,” she answered quickly, embarrassed, horrified.

If Gendry knew what happened….

Gods, he would probably never talk to her again.

“Are you sure?” he asked once more, eyeing her seriously, “there can be no secrets between us, Daenerys, alright?”

“Yes. No secrets,” she lied.

It was becoming frightening how well she’d learned to lie since she arrived here.

* * *

When Missandei came knocking at her door in the middle of the day, Daenerys could not stop herself from taking the girl into her arms for a warm, much needed embrace.

“Sweet girl,” her friend murmured against her head, hugging her back, “are you okay?”

“I am,” Daenerys sighed, closing her eyes. Slowly, Missandei was becoming her only sense of home around here. She always smelled of sunshine and lemons. It made her heart ache sweetly. “And you, are you alright?”

“Well, it was definitely awkward to serve drinks during an execution,” Missandei said, chuckling weakly.

Daenerys locked the door behind her and invited her in.

“Wow…your room is a lot bigger than the old one.” She walked around, touched her bedpost, ran her fingers along the golden curtains, smiling sadly. “You’re not coming back home, are you?”

 _Home._ She wanted to tell her that her home, her true home, was Dragonstone, not a house full of women she didn’t know. But Missandei was right—it was the closest thing to home she knew right now. “I will,” Daenerys answered. “He will let me go back, it was just for one night.” But she sounded unsure to her own ears.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t ask to go back to that stinky hole. You’re living like a princess here.”

“But…you….”

“I will still be here for you, don’t be silly. I work here.”

It wouldn’t be the same.

And Daenerys wasn’t sure she wanted to stay here.

She looked at Missi uncertainly. “I need to tell you something.”

“Gods, look at the size of that _bed!_ ” Missandei, with child-like excitement, went to jump on the mattress. It shook and made her bounce. She was delighted. “He’s spoiling you.”

Daenerys swallowed. “I need to tell you something—about him.”

Missandei leaned on her elbows, watching her friend curiously. “About Aegon?” she asked above a whisper.

“Yes.” Daenerys didn’t know where to begin, _how_ to begin. She trapped her lip between her teeth and chewed on it relentlessly. Advancing forward, she said, “we had dinner together last night.”

“Oh?”

“He sent me a dress to wear.”

“Oh.” Her tone had changed, from questioning to something more suggestive.

She skipped over the boring details—even the fire thing, because, it was _weird_ and she did not need Missandei to think she was crazy, for she was already bound to think so because of what was coming next anyway—and went directly to what had been eating her alive since last night. “We kissed,” she blurted.

Missandei’s jaw dropped. “He—King Aegon _kissed_ you?”

“Yes!”

“Oh gods, are you okay?” Now she sounded very concerned. “What else did he do?”

 _Oh no._ Missandei was thinking of it the wrong way, she most likely thought Daenerys meant Aegon kissed her, and she didn’t want him to, and that he tried to do other things to her, things she also didn’t want.

She inhaled deeply, throat tightening. “It wasn’t like that,” she whispered, ashamed.

She didn’t wish to lie, though. Jon had asked her if she wanted him to stop. What happened was still blurry in her head, not making too much sense, but she remembered his words, remembered how she said no, how she wanted him to kiss her, how gentle he was with her, how his fingers felt upon her skin, how his beard felt along her throat, how his hair felt under her fingertips, how he pulled away and she wanted to pull him back in and scream for him to keep kissing her, over and over and—

“You…liked it?” her friend asked unsurely.

“I know it’s wrong,” Daenerys rushed, “But I was very drunk, so, that must’ve been why, right?”

Missandei nodded. “Yes, of course. You aren’t _attracted_ to him, are you?”

“No, I can’t be.” _His dark grey eyes staring into hers as he told her to take her dress off, the feel of his lips on hers, unlike anything she’d ever felt before._ “He’s taken me away from my mother and—” _Is it fright or want that you feel for me right now?_ “and he’s cruel. He’s a bad person.” _Do you want me to show you how to feel good?_ “He’s a bad person,” she repeated numbly.

“Daenerys,” Missandei said slowly, “it’s okay if you feel attracted to him, I’m not judging you. He _is_ a handsome man after all.”

Daenerys had to stop herself from nodding in agreement.

“And you haven’t been with many boys before.”

“Any,” she muttered in correction.

Missandei smiled. “It’s normal.”

“Are you sure it is?”

“It’s not like you’re in love with him. You’re a woman, Daenerys, and you need to experience things to know what you like. You’ve just experimented with…someone not so ideal.”

“He’s my nephew,” she said the words quietly, like they were a secret, but they weren’t.

Missandei stared at her and then, threw her head back in laughter.

Daenerys’ cheeks went pink. “What?”

“It’s—just—your face.” She spoke between fists of giggles.

“Stop,” Daenerys lamented, furrowing her brow. “I’m serious. He’s family. Isn’t it a bit….”

“Daenerys, gods, I thought you were the educated one! Targaryens have always married in the family. They married their _siblings._ You and Aegon aren’t even that bad.”

She knew about that but Rhaella had always raised her to believe that there was something impure and abnormal about this tradition. Her mother hated being married to Aerys and said she was glad Daenerys would not have to go through the torture of being married to a Targaryen man.

“There’s no me and Aegon,” Daenerys muttered. “I was just drunk and—“

“And your hormones were acting up.” Missandei’s eyes twinkled in amusement. “Like I said, I’m not judging you. Who else can say that their first kiss was with the King of the Seven Kingdoms?”

“I’m not sure most women would want that in the first place.” But she did. Was she sick?

“Ah, you’d be surprised how many do.” Missandei shrugged. “He’s a beautiful man, why lie?”

Daenerys could not associate the word ‘beautiful’ with someone as chaotic as Jon but also didn’t know how she could describe him if not beautiful.

Before their conversation could continue, a couple of knocks sounded at the door. Daenerys went to open it, surprised to find Edd.

“King Aegon requests your presence in his quarters,” he declared.

Daenerys glanced back at Missandei who gave her an encouraging smile. She would need that.

* * *

When she entered his room, her hands sweaty due to how anxious she was, Daenerys was half-expecting him to bring the execution up or speak about the previous night. Instead, she found him facing the window, his hands clasped behind his back. The King had taken off his armour, adorned in a simple leather tunic. “You’ll live here from now on,” he stated.

She was surprised by his words. “Why?” she asked. There was silence. Gathering her courage, she spoke louder this time, “why?”

When he turned around, for the first time in a long while, she was scared of the darkness in his eyes. She realised he was right, she often forced herself to be afraid of him, even when she had no reason to be. But _now,_ the way he was looking at her, she felt the hairs on her arms stand. “What was Gendry doing in your room the other night?”

He said the words so smoothly, so casually, that she had to take a few seconds to process what he’d meant. _Oh._ She could not forget that night, how could she? She’d wept tears of joy when he brought her the letter her mother wrote her. Rhaella expressed how happy she was that Daenerys was safe and sound, and that she missed her with all her heart. The last sentence was: _We’ll see each other again; I know it._ She had cried so much that night, and Gendry was there for her as a friend, he consoled her and hugged her when she needed it the most.

It was the happiest and saddest night of her time in King’s Landing, both at once.

And Jon knew of it.

“Do you have people spying on me?” she asked, to dodge his question.

He frowned. “I ask the questions here, you answer. What were you doing with Gendry?”

From the dangerous glint in his eyes, Daenerys thought the truth would be better than a lie. Whatever he was thinking of was definitely worse than what actually happened. “I asked him to help me send a letter to my mother, to let her know I was fine. That’s all Gendry did.”

His eyes stayed glued on her face for the next few beats. Then he sighed. “How many times do I have to tell you that if you want something, you could just ask me? Why go to him?”

He made it sound so easy, like he was her guardian angel or something. So, she asked, “if I ask you to bring me back home, will you?”

He remained quiet.

She clenched her teeth. “That’s what I thought. That’s why I asked Gendry. He’s good and kind,” she snapped at him.

Jon barked a humourless laugh. “You’ve barely known this man for a month.”

“And you too!” she huffed. “Yet, in one month, you’ve taken me away from my mother, locked me in a house with strangers, treated me like a prisoner, had people spy on me—”

“I knew you’d be safer there than at court.”

“How? Have you forgotten what that man almost did?”

“Almost,” he growled back at her, “and I had his hand for it. If he hurt you, I would’ve killed him. Slowly.”

A chill ran down her spine. She had never argued with someone like this—yelling, snarling. It wasn’t like her, but being with him brought something out of her, like an animal being released from its cage and having to fight for survival, _like a dragon unchained._

She hated him for it.

Gods, she _hated_ him.

He made her heart beat faster than it ever did, he made her want to do things she would never do before, he made her want to scream, he made her insides twist and tingle, and she knew it then, that she hated him more than anything or anyone ever.

“I knew if you were here, the people who don’t want to stay loyal to me would find their way to you. The perfect Targaryen princess, so innocent and pretty. And look, even if you were not here, Gendry did exactly just that. He managed to start manipulating you,” Aegon spat at her.

“Gendry isn’t manipulative,” she said.

He looked so furious it both excited and thrilled her. The things he did to her…they were impossible to explain. Jon paced the room, running his hand through his ruffled hair. “Of course he is,” he scoffed, “he wants to use you!”

“For what?” she yelled right back at him. “He only wants to help me.”

He looked at her, scowling. “How can you be so _bloody_ naïve?”

She swallowed, clenching her fists at her sides.

Jon stalked forward, invading her space until their chests were almost touching. “No one wants to help you. Remember that. They want to use you, use the power that you have but don’t know how to use. And they’ll do so easily, given how naïve you are.”

“Then why didn’t you keep me away?” she sneered. “I never asked for this. For any of this.” Her voice cracked in weakness.

Jon stared at down at her and for a moment, his eyes softened, and then they were vicious again. “It’s meant to be like this,” he offered as the most vague, confusing explanation ever.

“Like what?”

“You’ll find out soon enough, you’ll embrace it, too.”

She made sure he could see every ounce of hatred she felt for him when she slowly said, “I’m not like you. I never will be.”

Jon’s scowl morphed into a smile, both seductive and sinister. When he took another step, their fronts brushed, his right hand came up to cup her cheek. The action was so gentle, a contrast to their situation, to the fire sizzling between them, their ragged breaths in sync to the rhythm of her heart. His thumb caressed her cheekbone, the touch feather-light, and, _gods,_ she could feel heat pool between her thighs.

“If I’m such a monster and you want me so bad, what does that make you?” he murmured.

She pushed his hand away, frowning. “I don’t want you.” The lie tasted sweet in her mouth.

Even Jon could tell she wasn’t being truthful. He laughed his usual, cruel laugh and walked away from her. “Who do you want then?” he asked, turning back to her with a smile that chilled her to the bones. “ _Gendry_? I’ll make sure to send you whatever remains of him when I’m done with him.”

“You can’t hurt him,” she said.

He scoffed. “Yes, please, do tell me what I can and cannot do, Daenerys.”

“Please,” she said, shaking her head. She was the one who forced Gendry in this position—this was all her fault. She couldn’t be responsible for his death, no, she would never forgive herself. Her conscience would never let her live.

“Are you begging for his life?” He sounded disgusted, disappointed. “He’s nothing, can’t you see? He’s not worth anything, neither is his life.”

“How can you say such things?” she asked, appalled.

He rolled his eyes.

“If you kill him,” she swore, “I’ll never forgive you.”

His eyes flashed, but it wasn’t anger she saw. She couldn’t tell what it was. Frowning, he darkly asked, “who says I care about your forgiveness? Or about _you_?”

If he wanted to wound her, then he did. She should not care about his words, no matter how harsh, and she knew that she meant nothing to him, how could she? But still, the words stung. “Please don’t hurt him.” She would feel so guilty. She dragged Gendry into all of this – it wasn’t fair. Tears gathered in her eyes and before she knew it, she was breaking down in front of him.

Jon looked at her, _really_ looked at her but his expression was unreadable and turned around so it was his back that was facing her. He took in deep breaths and in a quiet, deadly voice, commanded, “Get out.”

* * *

That night, Daenerys collapsed on her bed, drained—both mentally and physically.

It was the longest day of her life, starting from the tournament that turned bloodier than she’d anticipated and then finding out about Gendry conspiring behind the King’s back…and Jon. Threatening to kill Gendry.

She hated him with a burning passion.

Yet, as she twisted and turned on her bed, she found herself thinking of their night together. And how he taught her how to pleasure herself….

 _I shouldn’t,_ she told herself as her fingers danced along the edges of the thin shift she was wearing. But it was so late and she was so tired and she just wanted to feel good again and not miserable and….

When her fingers drifted under the robe, she forced herself to forget about everything else. She deserved to feel good after such a horrible day.

Slipping her fingers in her smallclothes, Daenerys inhaled rapidly as she crossed the thatch of silver hair just above her centre and felt her soft, warm outer lips. She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply through her nose and began rubbing gentle circles over her slit.

She felt herself getting wetter as she continued to stimulate herself with her daft fingers but…something wasn’t right. It didn’t feel like the _other_ night. The overwhelming pleasure she’d felt – the sparks that ignited her whole body, every nerve ending, every inch of her skin burning – was nowhere to be found.

Daenerys tried rubbing faster, harder, but it was still not the same. It felt good but not enough.

She squeezed her eyes shut, wondering what she was doing wrong. She thought back to that night—to what she was doing then to feel all these inexplicable things, and she got her answer.

 _He_ was kissing her. _He_ was touching her. _He_ was watching her. _He_ was whispering filthy words to her.

Shame clawed a path up her body. She recalled Missandei’s words about how she was simply a woman, after all, and Aegon was a pretty man. This was normal. This was just her body, not her mind.

Her mind would make her body do the right thing—it would never allow the events of the previous night to reoccur.

Right?

This was just her imagination.

No one had to know.

No one would know.

She imagined his lips on hers again, how soft they felt when he kissed her, and then along her neck. It was working, she could feel herself getting worked up, the tips of her breasts tingling.

She did not experience it, so she couldn’t tell, but she imagined Jon’s lips wrapped around her breast, his tongue licking at her nipple. She gasped as she rubbed herself faster, toying with her swollen clit.

 _Do something,_ the rational part of her brain screamed, _don’t think of him, you don’t want him—you don’t need him, he repulses you, you’re not drunk anymore, this is not right._

In her mind, Jon leaned back up to recapture her mouth in a bruising kiss. And she parted her lips for him, now knowing exactly how they would fit together. He tasted of something sweet, like tea, and she moaned into his mouth, wantonly, like she had no morals or values.

Perhaps she didn’t have any.

Jon kissed her softly, _teasingly,_ with languid strokes of his tongue and his thumb kept brushing over her cheek, so soft, so warm, and she hated him for it.

Hated how she melt into the kiss in her mind, hated the way he smiled against her lips. Of course, even in her dream, he was winning.

_This is not right._

Missandei was wrong, this couldn’t be normal.

How could she be thinking about kissing the man who’d just executed someone’s father not even a day prior. He was her nephew, her own blood, something Rhaella warned her was the root of insanity in this family. _It’s not normal to feel these things for your own family, your own kin,_ she used to say with a look of disgust on her face, _this is why I never felt them for your father, it never stopped him from taking what he wanted but I knew that I was pure._

Her mother would lose her mind if she saw her right now, encircling her clit as she thought of her nephew kissing her. Her murderous nephew.

Even with all these thoughts running through her brain, she was still kissing him. It was like being under a spell and being aware of it, but there was nothing she could do about it.

Her mind was conjuring images that were making her blush, too _naughty_ for someone who’d never experienced a man’s attention like this before. She thought of Jon kissing down her body, reaching her soaked cunt. His large hands would spread her thighs open and she would mewl, encouraging him to kiss her down there.

“Gods,” Daenerys groaned, her back arching from the pillow as her cunt clenched at the emptiness it was feeling.

Missandei told Daenerys that her lover, Greyworm, did this to her often. “It’s unlike anything else I’ve ever experienced,” her friend said with a dreamy sigh.

She had no idea how it did feel, but in her lust-induced vision of the King, it felt like paradise. His mouth was hot as he kissed her petals, then dove for the hidden pearl that brought her so much pleasure.

“Oh,” Daenerys gave a sharp cry as she felt the waves of her orgasm hit her, her chest heaving with heavy breasts as she came, her juices drooling down her inner thighs and onto her mattress, her fingers soaked in her wetness.

Her eyes snapped open as she heard her name being called.

Daenerys sat up on her bed, pulling her night shift back down as she held a hand to her jumping heart. “Y-yes?” she called out.

“I’ve been knocking for a while now,” the voice said. The gravelly, dark voice of no one else but Aegon.

She blinked to herself, clearly not in a state to see anyone— _especially not him._ “I’m coming,” she called out and awkwardly patted her hair, skimming her hands down the thin dress she was wearing.

With a rapidly increasing blood pressure, she opened the door to Jon.

His dark eyes found hers. He squinted them suspiciously. “What was taking you so long?” he asked.

It was weird to see him here. He would send someone to get her, not come here by himself. Why were the gods being cruel to her? “I fell asleep, sorry,” she lied sheepishly.

Jon nodded tersely. Looked around awkwardly. She watched in confusion as he swallowed then said, “I just came to apologise for my behaviour earlier. I didn’t mean to yell at you.”

Daenerys wondered if this was a part of her fantasy. She had to be dreaming, why was Jon apologising to her? Since when did he apologise? “I yelled too,” she said.

He looked at her, his eyes softer than before. “I know you hate me,” he began and for once, he did not sound arrogant or cocky nor furious. He just said it as a statement, his voice blank, void of emotions. “But I’m not purposely trying to make your life a living hell. You can send letters to your mother. As many as you wish, but I want you to show them to me first.”

Daenerys was pleasantly surprised and found herself nodding quickly. “Thank you, that’s all I want.”

“Anything else you require or desire, you can tell me.” He gave her a meaningful look. “Always.”

She felt like she could smile. “Okay.”

“I’ll take you to see your mother whenever I’m free.”

This time, Daenerys could not stop the smile that touched her lips. She would be seeing her mother again. Suddenly, everything felt right. “I don’t know what to say, this means everything to me. Truly.”

Jon’s lips tilted for a second.

She had to ask, though, “what will you do to Gendry?”

She regretted the words right away, for his eyes darkened menacingly. His jaw ticked, the almost smile falling away.

“For me,” she pleaded, “spare him. He’s my friend, he only wanted to help.”

“Fine,” he gritted out. “But if I ever find out that he’s betraying me, in other ways…” he trailed off darkly before taking a step forward, in her direction, “I will make sure to torture him so bad he’ll beg for me to end his life and put an end to his misery. And then, I will burn him alive.”

Daenerys felt gooseflesh rise all along her arms at the predatory look in his eyes. “Have I made myself clear, Daenerys?” he whispered.

“Yes,” she breathed out.

While keeping his eyes on her, he grabbed her hand and lifted it to his mouth for what she assumed was a goodnight kiss. But stopped a hairsbreadth away from his mouth, something new forming in the grey depths of his eyes. “Daenerys,” he said, his tone questioning.

Blinking, she asked, “yes?”

“Have you been touching yourself?”

“W-what?” Her voice trembled, like her hand.

His grip tightened on her wrist, his lips touching the tips of her fingers in a soft kiss that made her insides tighten. “I recognise your scent,” he murmured against her digits, “it’s been haunting me ever since that night.”

Daenerys’ breathing quickened.

“So, you were playing with yourself, hm?” His voice held mirth but something else, something primal and dangerous that she knew she should hate, but lately, Daenerys was finding herself not doing things that she should.

She nodded, too ashamed to speak. If only the ground could open up and swallow her whole.

“Were you doing it like I taught you to?” he asked softly.

Her hand was still in his, his eyes were invading hers. She wanted to disappear into thin air. Heat rose to her cheeks, coloured them red. Of course, she was doing what he said. No one before him taught her these things. “Yes,” she mumbled.

His eyes darkened to the point that they were almost black. Consuming. Not with anger, but with desire. He licked his lips. “Did you come?”

The bluntness of his words caused her to blush harder. She nodded again.

He inhaled deeply. “What were you thinking of as you touched yourself?”

 _Oh, no._ She had to look away, then, his piercing gaze too intense for her.

He cursed under his breath. “Were you thinking about me?” he asked, but he knew the answer. Softly, he implored, “Look at me when I speak to you, Daenerys.”

She lifted her head, gulping as she met his all too knowing gaze. “Was I on your mind as you fucked yourself?” he asked crassly, pressing another kiss to the tips of her fingers, and the tingling sensation travelled straight to her cunt. She bit her lip to contain a whimper.

“I can make you feel better than your own fingers,” he murmured to her, his other arm snaking around her waist to pull her closer to him. Daenerys could feel her nipples hardening as they brushed against his chest. “I can make you come so hard,” he said against her lips and she moved closer, inadvertently, begging him to kiss her. She hated herself for it but was powerless to _this._

“Would you want me to use my fingers?” he asked, dragging his mouth to her ear. She was shivering in his arms and it was certainly not due to the cold.

_This is wrong—push him away._

“Or my mouth?”

She thought of her dream again.

Gods, how would it feel to be kissed down there? By him?

A little moan escaped her and he chuckled darkly against her earlobe.

“Or my cock?”

At this, Daenerys gasped, her lady parts throbbing.

_Push him away._

_Do it._

_Now._

But it was him who pulled away and gently tucked a piece of silver hair behind her ear, smiling like he’d just won something, the satisfaction of toying with her like a dragon with a defenceless lamb. _I hate him,_ she thought so fiercely she felt it within every part of her. “It’s so hard, isn’t it?” he asked as if reading her mind. A heartbeat passed before he finished, “to desire someone you know you shouldn’t?”

And then, he left.

* * *

“This cannot go on.”

Varys and Gendry looked at each other in a way that told Daenerys they did not agree with her.

Daenerys huffed. “I am serious. He came to me last night—”

“ _He_ came to you?” Varys sounded shocked.

“—And made it clear that if he finds out anyone’s betraying him…they’re getting burned alive,” she finished, ignoring him. “This can’t happen. It’s a nice dream, bringing peace to Westeros. Getting rid of whom you believe is a terrible King, but the risk is too great. It is not worth it, trust me.”

“Whom we believe?” Gendry asked, disregarding everything else. “Do you not think so as well?”

“I—yes, of course, I do,” she said, louder and harsher than intended, “but that’s not the point. I could save you once, Gendry, but I can’t do it again.” Her eyes begged him to understand the gravity of this situation.

“I can’t give up now,” he replied after a pregnant pause and she sighed in annoyance. “We have to keep going. We have to win this fight.”

“How?” she snapped. “By meeting in dark passageways and discussing plausible scenarios? By gathering a list of all the people who hate him? Yes, there are many. Perhaps this whole country despises him. But they fear him more than they hate him. You will not grow an army big and strong enough to defeat his, and if he ever finds out about _this,_ every man you’ve convinced to join you will run. Why? Because fear is more powerful than loyalty. On whose side would the citizens rather be, yours or his?”

Gendry’s eyes grew wide. He was not expecting her outburst and quite frankly, neither was she. She clamped her mouth shut, not understanding where all of this came from. She just wanted them to see the truth, to face and accept it.

“She’s right.”

At the sound of a new female voice, Daenerys jolted. They were still in the secret passages than ran under the city, and Gendry assured her no one else knew of their plan. So, she was flabbergasted at the sight of a woman approaching the three of them, a candle held in her hand. Slowly, her ginger hair came into view.

“Lady Sansa,” Daenerys said to herself in realisation.

Ned Stark’s daughter joined them slowly, coming up to stand next to Daenerys. She was taller than Daenerys, and her eyes were as puffy red as they had been on the previous day. Her face looked empty, like she had cried enough, and there was nothing left in her any longer.

Daenerys glanced at Varys. “Is she….”

“Yes, I am aware of this,” Sansa answered before the eneuch could. “My father warned me that something could happen to him. And if it did, then I should be ready to take over him and do anything in my power to help get rid of Aegon.” Sharp eyes settled on the girl with silver hair, “And now, I have even more reasons to want him dead.”

“I’m so sorry about what happened to Lord Stark,” Daenerys said truthfully.

Sansa’s face remained stoic. “I don’t trust you,” she stated.

Daenerys furrowed her brows. “I don’t understand,” she spoke softly.

Sansa’s eyes were unforgiving. “You’re his aunt. You’re Aerys’ daughter. You’re a Targaryen.”

“By name,” Gendry jumped to Daenerys’ defence, “not blood. She is nothing like Aegon.”

Gendry thought so highly of her that she couldn’t help but wonder, embarrassed, what he would think if she knew what kind of dirty, ungodly thoughts she’d been having about the King. How sick she was to want him so bad it was driving her mad.

“I do not trust her,” Sansa repeated, firmly, “but she is right about what she said. A war against King Aegon is not the right decision.”

“The North would not hesitate to go to war, though. He killed Ned Stark,” Varys pointed out.

Sansa nodded. “The North would die to avenge my father,” she acknowledged, and her voice wavered as she spoke of Ned, “but I will not let them die for him. I’ve always wanted to be Queen one day and free them from the tyranny that the Targaryens have caged us all in for centuries now. But, if I am to be Queen, I want to be the good kind. I will not lead my people into a lost war. Aegon is too strong. People fear him too much. It will never work.”

“This is what I’ve been trying to say,” Daenerys said, “The King cannot be stopped.”

“I didn’t say that, though, Aegon may win a war but he isn’t indestructible.” Sansa’s eyes hardened. “ _Anyone_ can be killed.”

“Wait,” Gendry said, suddenly enlightened, “when he spoke of punishing me if I betray him, does he ever mention hurting _you_ if you betray him?”

Daenerys blinked at the bizarre question directed at her. “No,” she replied honestly, “he never said anything about that.”

“He never speaks of hurting or killing Daenerys,” Gendry remarked.

“And he decided to forgive Gendry for going behind his back only because you asked it of him,” Varys added thoughtfully, and snorted distastefully, “when we all know he’s killed men for less.”

“What did he say about the letter? Was he angry?” Gendry asked.

Daenerys wet her lips. “No. He said he’ll allow me to send my mother letters as long as he reads the contents. And that he’ll take me to her for a visit when he can.”

“That sounds very unlike him. It’s almost like he’s merciful when it comes to Daenerys,” Gendry exclaimed, “don’t you get it?”

“Get what?” Daenerys asked.

“There’s no need for a war to kill him,” Gendry enunciated and pointed at Daenerys, “all we need is _her_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was more or less a filler, next one is a big one ;) As always, kudos and comments are a blessing. x


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @MhysaTeresa for this gorgeous moodboard <3
> 
> This is kind of a heavy chapter but there's finally SMUT. You're welcome. It's purely Jonerys, no Gendry (sorry to Gendry fans, jk I know y'all hate him), not much plot but I think it moves their relationship forward a lot.

**vii. watch the queen conquer**

Now that she lived at court, with each passing day, Daenerys grew more and more curious of the King.

He was a very secretive man. He was almost never seen unless he wanted to be seen. He spent a lot of time in the yard, practicing sword fighting.

On one morning, she stood on the balcony and watched from above. Aegon was swift on his feet and quick with his reflexes. He dodged every attack and in turn, didn’t give his opponent any chance to dodge his. While his rival let out grunts and groans to show how hard this was, he was eerily quiet. Like this was a practiced dance in his head, and he just had to follow the beats.

He was so smooth with his moves, he almost never stumbled out of control. His sword was his best friend, making all of his moves look so easy.

As the metals clinked and clashed, Jon’s closest friend and advisor, Sam joined her.

“Greetings, Daenerys.” They were on a first name basis now—Sam was a sweetheart.

“Sam,” she greeted just as nicely.

“I see you’re enjoying a nice view this morning,” he teased.

Daenerys smiled. “I’ve never seen people fight with swords before. There’s something fascinating about it.”

“There is. Especially today’s training is quite intense.”

“And why is that?”

“Well, he has this very…strange tradition.”

 _Uh oh._ “Which is?”

“Every moon, he likes to go a bit off the rails and turn his training sessions into actual combats.”

Daenerys raised a brow. “And that means…?”

“They fight until one dies.”

She gasped.

Sam eyed her worriedly. “Sorry. Was that too forward?”

Daenerys’ eyes flew back to where the King and a young man were still fighting. Jon’s hair had come undone in the process, his lengthy midnight black curls bouncing and whirling in perfect sync to his body. “So,” she gulped, “one of them is going to die?”

“I’ll spoil it for you. It’s not going to be our King.”

“Is it rigged?”

“Oh, no. He’s serious about this, he doesn’t cheat. But he’s also very good.”

“Why does he put his men through this?”

“Believe it or not, everyone who goes against him during these fights does so by will.”

Daenerys could not understand. “Why would they _willingly_ charge to death as such?”

“Men and their egos,” Sam huffed, “this is Aegon handing them a perfectly legal opportunity to kill him. I believe there’s something appealing about getting to go home and tell your wife you killed the King. Who would miss out on such an opportunity? Some men truly, whole-heartedly believe they can be the one to defeat him. But it never works, so don’t ask me why they even bother trying.”

Daenerys viewed the match with a different perspective from that moment. He must truly be crazy, she thought, to risk his life like this every once in a while. Or confident enough to believe he was indestructible.

After Sam left, Jon delivered a final, fatal blow to the man’s chest—his sword literally going through his opponent. The boy gave a dying groan as he fell to the ground.

Jon looked up, caught her eye, as if he always knew she was watching and gave her a dazzling smile.

He was a complete mystery to her.

Other than fighting, he travelled and read a lot. Once she caught him in the library flicking through the pages of a large book—if she wasn’t mistaken, it was about dragons—and in that light, he was almost a normal man.

But Jon was not a normal man. He was complicated, impossible to dissect. When she discovered a layer, there were three more awaiting her.

He called her naïve, thought people would try to turn her against him—which he wasn’t wrong about, believed she was a danger to his rule, yet he seemed hell-bent on protecting her and keeping her close to him.

In the short span of time she’d been here, Daenerys felt less like a prisoner and more like a noble lady. That feeling filled her with guilt. How could she be comfortable living here—in her big, royal-like bedchambers, with food being served to her on silver plates like she was the Queen herself, and not any food, but the kind that made her stomach full with just a few bites due to how rich in nutrients and tasty they were, she was allowed to wander around (with protection), read, play with the children (she’d become acquainted with Sam and Gilly’s son)—when her mother was alone on an island?

This was not her home. She was not supposed to feel fine here. She was not supposed to find the place beautiful, make friends with unlikely people and even kids, eat well and sleep like royalty. This felt wrong.

The further she strayed from being treated like a captive, the guiltier Daenerys felt.

A part of her _wanted_ to be utterly miserable, like her first days, just to remind herself that Jon did this to her and that he was a terrible, terrible man.

It was that same terrible man who’d come to her one morning, requesting that she followed him down to the crypts.

Over the days, Daenerys grew less and less scared of Aegon. She didn’t forget who he was or what he was capable of but she no longer feared he would slit her throat every time he was in her presence.

She did not _want_ to fear him less. Fearing was good, fearing kept her grounded and served as a reminder that he took her away from her home and mother. But she had no control over it, she could not force herself to be afraid of him. Wary, yes, and curious but no longer terrified.

So, she took his extended arm that very morning, and walked with him. “What are you showing me?” she asked.

He hummed. “You’ll see.”

He was adorned in a simple, black leather jerkin that day, which indicated that he had nothing else planned. She wanted to be mentally ready for one of his tricks, he was an unpredictable man, after all. Daenerys wore a pretty, floral dark blue dress whose sleeves were long enough to cover her up to her wrists and the ends shuffled on the ground as she walked.

Every man and woman that they passed by bowed to them—to him, really, but it still felt weird for Daenerys to be on the receiving end of this. Sometimes, she’d find people glaring at her, perhaps because they didn’t like that Jon seemed to treat her kinder than he did others, like she was special.

She longed to tell them that she did not understand his motives either.

She thought he was taking her to where the dead was buried, but he guided her deeper down a dark alleyway and finally said, “this is where I keep the prisoners.”

She went still against his arm. _This is it,_ she thought, _this is when he throws me into one of these cells, deciding that he’s done being nice, well, at least I got to enjoy some luxury before it._

“How many prisoners do you have?” she asked.

“About ten. Or twenty, I stopped counting.”

“Why?”

“Different reasons.” He noted that she stopped walking. “Come.”

“I don’t feel so good about this,” she admitted, staring at the long hallway ahead, cells aligning either side.

“Don’t worry. None of them are getting tortured,” he swore, “there’s a dungeon for that.”

She made a face.

His lips quirked, but she couldn’t tell if he was joking.

They hesitantly began journeying down the long, dirty and dark path. Daenerys glanced both ways, noticing the men locked in the cells. Some were sleeping on the small bunks, some were just staring idly at the floor, some glanced up to look at them and some scowled.

“Have they committed crimes?” she asked, because she knew he had other, more brutal ways to deal with criminals.

“No. Not all of them. Most of them are hostages.”

“For what?”

“To ensure their loyalty to the Crown.”

Daenerys looked at him inquiringly.

“See, Daenerys, I’ve learned something valuable when I became King. Love is more powerful than war. Love can stop wars.”

“As well as cause them.”

He laughed and the sound resonated everywhere, awaking every prisoner. “That is true. But people will go to any extent to protect the ones they love the most.” He stopped at a particular cell and she looked in to find a man sitting on the floor, his knees brought up with his elbows resting on them. His head was down, golden-brown curls falling over his head.

“Do you know who that is?”

“No,” she answered.

“Loras Tyrell,” he replied.

The man jerked at the name but didn’t look up.

Daenerys knew of the Tyrells of Highgarden. “Olenna…”

“Olenna’s grandson, yes,” he confirmed, then chuckled. “The Queen of Thorns is one of the very few women I fear.”

“Why do you have him locked in here?”

“Because her loyalty was a fickle thing,” he provided. “So, I had to find a way to make sure she remembers who has the most power between the two of us. Poor Loras. He just happened to be the easiest target.”

“Doesn’t that only anger her more?”

“Yes, but, she’s a smart woman. She knows I know how much she loves her grandson. Before she can even reach King’s Landing for an attack, I will kill him. So, she won’t try anything.” Aegon sighed at the man who was facing the ground. “Loras, give us a smile, at least.”

The young man refused to lift his head.

If there was one thing Jon didn’t like, Daenerys came to know, it was having his authority questioned. “I said,” he repeated slowly, “give us a smile, Loras.”

He looked up, at last, his face the epitome of exhaustion. Dark circles contoured his eyes, his lips were chapped. He grimaced. “What do you want?”

“Just wanted you to meet my aunt, Daenerys,” The King replied casually.

Daenerys gave him an apologetic look.

Loras Tyrell sighed heavily. “Has my grandmother said anything?”

“Olenna wants us to come to a compromise for his release,” Jon explained, “but I’ve grown quite used to him. You wouldn’t want to leave me so fast, now, would you?” he directed the question to the young man.

“No, my King,” he mumbled dryly.

Aegon smirked.

“Loras is good. But not all the prisoners are like him.” They walked some more and Jon announced, “this is Oberyn Martell’s wife, Ellaria Sand. She snuck into the city with her three daughters to avenge their deceased father. As you can guess, it didn’t go according to plan.”

Daenerys startled as she saw the chained woman inside. With a growl, she was charging for the bars, only for her to be stopped by the bindings on her wrists and ankles. She hissed like a snake, her venomous dark eyes boring into Aegon’s. She looked dirty, sweaty and furious, in a much worse state than Loras.

“She tried to bite my finger off when I came to see her once. Since then, she’s lost her privilege of wandering freely.” Jon approached her like she was animal, his arms behind his back. “Isn’t that right, Ellaria?”

“Are you scared of a woman, Aegon?” she snarled at him. “Come in here and we can end this once and for all.”

“I don’t doubt that we could end this once and for all, but, it’s more fun watching you struggle,” Jon announced.

She scowled at him, eyes shifting to her. “Who’s this?”

“You ask so many questions for a woman in chains,” he laughed.

In an act of defiance, Ellaria spat at him. Daenerys gasped inaudibly, even if it didn’t reach him, he still saw the action. He exhaled slowly. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood,” he drawled, “but soon, you’ll be with your daughters.”

“Where are her daughters?” Daenerys asked.

“Dead,” Jon answered, “I killed all three of them in front of her.”

Daenerys didn’t know what she was expecting.

“Why am I not with these people?” she asked as they headed back.

“Because you’re not like them.”

“You’re wrong about me. About whatever you think I am.” She swallowed. “I’ve never been anything special.”

“You’re wrong. You’ve always been special. There’s a reason our paths have crossed.”

She blinked. “Yes, because you came to look for me.”

He stopped walking, facing her. The torches on the wall lit up his face. He was frowning. “I dreamed of you,” he told her, “before I’d even seen you. I saw your face in my dreams, your silver-gold hair, violet eyes….”

She huffed in disbelief. “That could be any Targaryen woman,” she pointed out.

“No. It was you.” He licked his lips, “how can you say you’re not special? Have you not seen what happened when you touched fire?”

She tried to deny the strangeness of that occurrence but he was right, it _was_ weird.

“There are things I don’t understand,” he said, “just like there are things you don’t comprehend. But I met with a priestess about this and she said that you and I were destined for great things.”

Daenerys shook her head. “You must be mistaken.”

“There’s no mistaking what I saw in those visions.”

“What _did_ you see?”

“I can’t say.”

“Then I won’t know what you’re expecting of me.”

“I’m expecting you to embrace who you are, Daenerys.” He dropped his voice. “Stop being afraid of who you truly are.”

“I’m not like you,” she informed him, needing to believe that.

He searched her eyes for a moment before a smile crossed his lips. “Let’s play a game,” he suggested slyly.

“A game?” She was befuddled.

“How about for a day,” he said, “you become the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms?”

Daenerys’ eyes grew wide and after the initial shock of his bizarre request passed, she had to laugh. “I could never do that,” she exclaimed.

“You’ve never thought about what it would be like to be Queen?” He didn’t sound like he believed her.

“No,” she answered quickly.

Although, perhaps, once she might have dreamed of it….

That meant nothing.

She didn’t want to rule anything.

It was a pretty thought, a nice thing to entertain in the secrecy of her head but to actively become the Queen… _no, never._

“It will be fun,” he pressed, “just between the two of us. A harmless game.”

“I don’t know what to do as a Queen,” she admitted.

“You’re a fast learner. You’ll learn.” His eyes twinkled mischievously, and she had a vague feeling he was referring to her…learning how to pleasure herself.

A blush rose to her cheeks as she held onto his arm, wary of this little game he wanted her to play.

* * *

He took her to the Throne Room and ordered everyone out.

“What are we doing here?” she questioned, anxious for what was to come.

She didn’t understand what he was doing, what he was aiming to prove with this. If she knew what he wanted, perhaps she could give it to him, and they could stop this.

“You can’t be Queen without sitting on the Throne,” he said.

Daenerys sucked in a sharp breath, looking at him like he’d lost his mind. “You want me to—” she cut herself off, not even daring to say the words.

He hadn’t let a soul near the Iron Throne since he took it from Jaime, so, why would he want her to sit on it? For some stupid game he just made up?

“Our ancestors built it, dear aunt,” he purred the words at her, amusement laced through his voice. She cringed a bit at him mentioning their familial bond—it was not a bother for him, that much was clear, but she still had a hard time grappling with the fact that she had sexual desires about her nephew. “Don’t be shy, go take a seat.”

He even led her to the chair with the most power in this continent, his hand drifting away from her arm as she stood idly in front of the Throne, not knowing what to do. “I don’t think this is right,” she mumbled, as she stared at it.

It was beautiful, majestic, _horrifying_ all at once. It called out to her and threatened her not to take a step closer at the same time. Entranced, Daenerys barely registered Jon’s sigh of annoyance. “I’ll be mad if you don’t,” he warned.

Her tongue darted out to wet her dry lips as she took a hesitant step forward, climbing the set of stairs, moving closer than she’d ever been to the symbol of power and destruction. Her family fought and died for it, killed and burned for it, was driven to madness because of it. She wondered if they were all up there, somewhere, perhaps in the Seven Hells, disapprovingly staring down at her.

“Go ahead,” Jon’s voice came to her like a gentle caress, coaxing her to take a seat.

So, she did.

Her knees were trembling, her hands were drenched in sweat and her stomach fluttered as she sat down. For a moment, nothing happened, her hands were folded tightly on her lap, her wide eyes meeting the King’s.

“Beautiful,” he spoke thoughtfully.

A shiver ran down her spine at his honey-sweet voice. “What?”

“You look beautiful on it,” he murmured, approaching her, all while keeping his dark gaze fixed on her, “perhaps even better than I do.”

She licked her lips, not knowing what to say. “How does it feel to sit on it?” he asked.

Daenerys couldn’t find the right word. _Exhilarating, weird, uncomfortable, powerful…powerful…powerful._

_Wrong._

_Right._

It was a clash of different sensations and it coursed along her body, through every nerve ending, just below her flesh, rising in her chest, wrapping itself around her beating heart. She’d never felt like this before—never.

“They say everyone who took a seat on that Throne lost their mind, consumed by its power,” Rhaella, her mother, used to whisper to her a long time ago, brushing her silver-golden hair.

Did that mean she would go mad, too?

“Tell me what you feel, Daenerys,” Jon implored softly, “do you feel the connection?” _Yes._ “The power?” _Yes._ “That feeling of being on the top of the world?” _Yes._

“No,” she lied, quickly, and shot up from the seat. “I don’t want to sit on it anymore.”

She ignored his sigh of disappointment.

* * *

Aegon requested her presence for a hearing that day.

“This is my least favourite part about being King,” he groaned, “having to listen to people complain about things. But I can’t escape it. Since you’re _my Queen_ today—” No, there was absolutely nothing erotic about the way he called her his Queen, Daenerys refused to even consider why her loins tightened at the way he said these two words, “—I figured you should be with me.”

She was growing tired of his game, but she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t curious to see how he dealt with civilians’ issues. This time, she didn’t argue with him. “I would love to," she said.

He smiled, surprised. “That’s what I want to hear,” he said.

He was right. It was a dull affair.

Jon sat on the Throne with Daenerys to his right and Sam to his left. She was happy to see Sam again, and he looked surprised to see her there. She shrugged at him, not knowing how to explain Jon’s idea of a game.

“Sam helps me with my decisions,” the King told her, “ _apparently_ I’m not that merciful. But today’s special. I want your help as well.”

She panicked. “I don’t have experience in this, I would never presume to—”

“You’re not presuming anything. I’m asking you to make all the decisions for me today,” he said, tilting his head to the side to observe her, “you should be happy. This will not be as bloody as it usually is.”

But she had no idea what to do.

She was naturally a very indecisive person, how could she possibly help with this situation?

One by one, different citizens with different problems poured in the Throne Room.

The first one was a farmer who spoke of the irrigation issues in his village and how this was preventing them from growing their crops as they should. Sam was quick to respond to this issue, assuring him that they were already coming up with a solution to it.

As the first man departed, Daenerys realised just how boring this would be.

The fifth person to have requested an audience with the King was not a person—but a group of five men and three women. Only one stepped forward, he was tall and dark-haired. “Your Grace,” he bowed to Aegon, “My lord,” Sam, and then, awkwardly bowed to Daenerys, “…my lady?”

She couldn’t blame any of them for being confused.

Aegon lifted a hand, signaling him to start speaking.

“Your Grace, I’m not a very rich man. My only way of living is what I can get from my goats and vegetables and there’s this thief, going around, stealing my crops and animals. And not just me, but he’s been doing this to everyone else!”

Behind him, the men and women echoed their angered agreement.

“We’ve caught him,” a woman proclaimed, pushing forward a man whose hands were tied behind his back, head bowed in shame. “And we want for him to pay for his crimes!”

Jon exhaled in exhaustion. “Alright,” he said and Daenerys turned her head to watch him unclasp his dagger from his belt.

Her hand shot out to capture his arm before she knew what she was doing.

Jon glanced down at her hand, then slowly lifted his gaze to her face. He raised a brow. “Is there a problem?”

“What are you going to do to him?”

“Punish him,” he replied.

“Maybe there are…other ways of punishment.”

He stared at her.

“Like you said earlier, less bloody ways.”

“I think they _are_ asking for blood, though.”

She curved her head upwards, bravely stating, “you said I get to make the decisions today.”

A slow smile spread on his plump lips. “You’re a fast learner,” he commented amusedly then sat back down on the Throne, clearing his throat. “What do you suggest then?”

She wet her lips. “He could repay them. Work for them. Return the animals.”

“If we cut his hands, he won’t be able to steal again,” he pointed out.

She shook her head at him.

He rolled his eyes. “Fine. We’ll do things your way, since you’re the Queen today.” Perhaps, one day, she would get used to his ability to be witty in situations like this. “It’s your lucky day, thief,” he announced loudly and his words caused the man’s head to jerk up, hesitantly, wide green eyes staring at them. He looked terrified, yet, somehow hopeful. “You will repay them all you’ve stolen. If you need to work until your hands bleed to do so, so be it.”

The villager who spoke before looked flabbergasted. “My King,” he called out, sounding confused and angry, “how can you let him go like this?”

“My dear aunt has convinced me to be merciful,” Aegon said with a faux smile. “Just for today.”

“We don’t want mercy, what if he steals again?” A woman huffed.

Another nodded. “He needs to pay! He’s been terrorising us for over five moons now!”

Daenerys could not understand the outburst. She believed this was the right course of action but now, everyone except the thief was furious and it was all her fault. “He can learn from his mistakes,” she tentatively told them.

“It’s not a mistake if he does it over and over again,” the man spat at her, glowering.

 _Oh gods—what have I done?_ Daenerys thought the solution to everything ought to be mercy. That was what her mother told her, yet it seemed trying to be merciful was not working here. In despair, she glanced at Jon. “I didn’t mean to make them mad,” she whispered to him.

He nodded. “You’ll never please everyone, you must remember that. But you must stand by your decisions. _Always_.” Three loud claps from him and every sound in the room came to an abrupt end. “That is my decision and it is final,” he spoke to the agitated farmers, “if anyone disagrees with me, please, step forward and I’ll show them what it means to be punished.”

As she’d expected, no one dared move an inch.

Jon relaxed. “You may leave,” he said.

Daenerys thought the worst was over. She decided, from that moment, she wouldn’t try to get involved in any of this. She just saved someone from being tortured, yet, she was treated like the one who was in the wrong. This was too complicated for her, she would shut her mouth, sit prettily and let Jon do as he pleased.

But, then, something unexpected happened.

“Is that all for today?” Aegon asked after their departure.

Daenerys hoped no one else would come. She was tired already. Her back was hurting from sitting in this upright position for hours on end. She wished to head back to her room, maybe draw a nice, hot bath and get some rest.

“Actually, Your Grace,” Edd began, moving from one foot to the other, evidently on edge. “There’s someone else.”

The uncertainty in his voice made Jon frown. “What is it, Edd? Speak freely.”

“It’s a child.”

“A child?” Sam repeated. “What do you mean, a child? This is not a joking matter. Why would a kid need an audience with the King?”

“We don’t know,” Edd admitted, “she’s been here since last night. Slept outside the gates, even through the rain. We tried to get her to leave but she just wouldn’t listen or talk to us. She said she needed to speak with you.”

Jon was not amused the slightest. “Let her stay as long as she wishes. I’m not here to joke around.” He made his way to stand.

“She sounded really unsettled, Your Grace,” Edd blurted.

It was obvious that the young man was touched by whoever this child was but was also scared of getting on Jon’s bad side. So, he spoke the words cautiously, in a low tone and lowered his eyes when the King’s cold ones darted to his face.

“Jon,” Sam said gently. It was the first time she’d heard someone call him _this_ name—and not get killed.

Jon seemed to know what his friend was going to say. “You have a soft spot for children,” he muttered.

“Everyone has a soft spot for kids,” Sam laughed, “but seriously, we should hear her out. Perhaps it’s something of importance.”

Jon furrowed his brows, running a hand over his bearded cheek pensively. He looked at his friend, then his grey eyes locked on hers. “What do you think?”

“I think we should let her speak,” Daenerys said. Knowing a child spent a night out there, in the cold, alone, broke her heart. Of course, she wanted to hear about whatever was wrong with the poor kid. But she also didn’t mean to overstep.

He let out a heavy puff of breath, while Sam smiled at Daenerys. “Let her in,” Jon ordered, sitting back down.

When two guards brought in the little girl in question, Daenerys felt her heart drop to her feet at the horrific scene in front of her. She was a small thing, really, all dirty and wet, her brown hair stuck to her face, her small arms wrapped around herself to provide the smallest amount of heat.

Her instincts acted faster than her head. On a whim, Daenerys was out of her chair, making her way to the little girl. She unclasped the cloak she’d taken with her earlier due to the chilly air and used it to envelop the girl’s tiny frame. She looked up at her, her eyes wide, lip quivering. “Thank you,” she murmured.

Daenerys smiled softly. “Are you alright?” She scanned her face for any bruises, but all she saw were obvious signs of distress. Physically, she was fine, which knocked a breath of relief into Daenerys’ chest.

“C-can you help me?” she asked. Her voice was as little as hers, scared and faint.

“Yes,” Daenerys found herself answering before even knowing what the problem was. She just wanted the look of horror on her face gone. “What’s wrong?”

“I-it’s my mother.”

“What happened to your mother?”

The little girl couldn’t be older than five and she frowned, hard, before answering, “she—she hasn’t woken up in three days. The people in my v-village said they can’t help. They said on-only the King coukd.”

Daenerys frowned, not understanding what she meant, her rushed, stuttered words not making a lot of sense to her. She looked back at Jon, who finally decided to join them.

The girl saw Jon and looked more frightened than before, cowering behind Daenerys.

Jon stared down at her. “What’s wrong?” he asked, and she wouldn’t say his voice was _soft_ or gentle but, to the very least, he didn’t sound deadly. Which was still an improvement for Jon.

“She says her mother won’t wake up and it’s been days,” Daenerys explained, wrapping an arm around the little girl’s shoulders.

Jon quirked a brow at her. “Has she come all the way here because her mother’s sleeping?” he deadpanned.

“Your Grace,” Daenerys pressed, “I think it’s something else.” She dropped her voice so only he could hear, “look at her. She’s terrified. Would it be impossible to check what’s wrong?”

He ran a hand over his face. “I have more important matters than a frightened child.”

It was dumb, but she had to try, “Well, you said you wanted me to be Queen today.” She lifted her head challengingly, and wondered, _gods, where does this confidence come from?_ “If I was Queen, I _would_ help her.”

Jon’s eyes flashed. Not with anger, but with something akin to…pride, like he was pleasantly surprised. She would never understand whether he liked when she was obedient or when she went against him. Perhaps, both. “Very well,” he drawled, “as _my Queen_ commands.” He said it in a joking way but the intensity of his eyes told another story.

As a side note, she was probably going to start imagining him calling her _his queen_ as she pleasured herself at night, but that was completely irrelevant so, she pushed it to the far, far back of her head.

* * *

A part of Daenerys, the part that knew the world wasn’t filled with roses and good things, had a feeling that the little girl’s – Marra, she learned her name during their ride to her village, which took about an hour on horseback and Daenerys’ heart broke at the knowledge that this child travelled all this way by foot and on her own – mother was dead.

She lived in a very small village, all of the houses made of varying combinations of woods and straws. The stench of the city’s waste could be smelled in this little town. The villagers _all_ looked like they were collectively seeing a ghost when the King arrived. Some bowed while others straight-up ran into their houses to hide. Marra grabbed Daenerys’ hand and guided her inside her small home.

“She’s in here,” the little girl said, pushing past a curtain and going into a room.

Daenerys’ breath hitched in her throat at the sight of a woman’s corpse on a bed, dried blood on the white mattress, her face pale. For a second, she had to close her eyes. The girl tugged at her dress. “Is she alright?” Marra asked, staring up at Daenerys. Her big eyes were so full of hope. “She’s okay, right? Right?”

Daenerys felt bile in her throat, she felt her heart twisting painfully. A helpless glance in Jon’s direction. His face was tight, stoic but there was a slight furrow in his brows, displeasure clouding his eyes.

“Marra, love,” Daenerys said as gently as she could, “who did you go to before us? Who else saw your mother?”

“Our neighbours,” she answered in a rush and the next moment, Jon was out. Marra stomped her feet. “She’s okay, isn’t she? Why aren’t you saying anything?”

Daenerys couldn’t bring herself to tell her with words, she gathered the little girl in her arms, caressing her head and taking her away from the room. She began sobbing against Daenerys’ gown, her cries muffled by the soft fabric.

Daenerys had never felt more heartbroken in her life before.

When she heard a yelp coming from outside, she softly ordered, “Stay here.” And ran out to see what was happening.

A gasp escaped her lips when she saw Jon holding a man up _by the throat_ as the latter thrashed and clawed at the King’s wrists. The rings Jon wore on his fingers, the golden ones with rubies encrusted in them, dug into the old man’s neck, drawing droplets of blood.

With a push, he released the man who stumbled back, gasping for hair, his hands rubbing at his throat. “This little girl comes to you and instead of helping her, or informing her that her mother’s _dead_ you ask her to come see _me?_ ” he growled at him.

The man began coughing, holding his hand up to Aegon, fingers trembling, as if asking for time before he could answer. Jon stood calmly, fists clenched at his sides.

A woman with braided black hair came to the rescue, saying, “forgive my husband, Your Grace. We—we’re a small village. Not even hundred people. We’re poor, we couldn’t help her.”

“What does that mean?” Jon inquired. “Who did this to her mother?”

“Marra’s mother, Rayla, was a kind woman…but she was desperate for a better life for her and her daughter. That led her to do _other_ kinds of jobs.” It was not hard to understand what she was alluding to. “It was not uncommon for her to take rich lords and highborn men into her house for the night whenever they passed through our village to ride for the city. The other night was no different. We saw her going in with him. That is all we know, the next morning, her daughter came running to us. When we saw her d-dead, we knew whom it had to be but…how could we help her? It’s best we don’t involve ourselves in matters of the rich. Men like him can ruin our lives so, we told her the truth, that only the King could help her. Not us. Forgive us, Your Grace, but things like this happen everywhere and there’s hardly ever justice for people like us.”

“Who is the man?” Daenerys asked.

“Someone at court, someone with a respected occupation,” the woman spluttered.

Jon’s hand twitched. “ _Who_?” It was a growled demand now.

“L-Lord Alran.”

The name was unfamiliar to Daenerys.

But not to Aegon. He clenched his jaw. “The master-at-arms.”

“Yes,” the woman fell on her knees, her hands coming together in a begging motion, “please, understand why we could not help Marra.”

“Clean the body. Give her a proper funeral,” he ordered curtly before nodding at Daenerys, silently commanding her to follow him.

* * *

By the moment Daenerys was back at the castle with the King and some of his men who accompanied them, her tears had dried up. The crack in her heart which split further apart when Marra watched her mother’s body get taken away was now coated with ice.

Her sorrow morphed into fury.

Even more so when Lord Alran answered to Jon’s call, came strutting in the Throne Room like he was someone who deserved respect, having the nerve to look all cocky and dismissive as he folded his arms across his chest and grinned at Jon. “Your Grace.”

Daenerys had never experienced _this_ type of anger before. It was…consuming. It burned her, from the top of her head down to her toes.

“Do you know why you’ve been called here, Alran?” Aegon asked.

“I hope you have some good news for me.” He raised both eyebrows.

He was a well-built man, which was understandable for his position. His arms were big and muscled and he was taller than everyone else in the room. Daenerys’ stomach churned as she tried to picture what could’ve happened that night—how someone like _him_ killed an innocent, fragile-looking woman like Rayla.

“I fear I do not,” Jon said, “have you been at the village near Rosby a few days ago?”

She saw the exact moment the man realised what was going on. Recognition flickered in the emerald depths of his eyes and his throat bobbed in a quick swallow. “Yes…we were on our way back from a hunt.”

“And you stopped by to find some _relief_ after the hunt, haven’t you?”

Alran gulped. “Listen, if this is about that woman—“

“Her name’s Rayla,” Daenerys cut him off.

He glanced at her, blinked twice, like he was only now seeing her and nodded. “Yes, Rayla. She came with some other women to our tents and…you know the rest. If I had known how she was, I never would’ve gone hone with her.” He scoffed.

“What did she do?” Jon asked.

“She was refusing to do her job. I was paying her and she was being a bitch about it, complaining that she’d had enough for tonight and didn’t want to continue. I paid for the _whole_ night but after just an hour, she asked me to leave,” Alran explained, as casually as ever.

“You killed her,” Daenerys piped in, that ball of fire in her chest expanding. The flames were burning brighter now. “She didn’t want to lay with you so you _killed_ her?”

“It’s her job! No one asked her to be a whore if she wasn’t willing to go through with it,” the man snorted, “And what? No! I did not kill her. I might’ve…mishandled her while she was struggling. She might have hit her head against the bed frame but that was an accident, not murder. After that, I left. I even left the money there. I did nothing wrong.”

The fire burned down her stomach now, still consuming her. “You raped and killed her.”

“You can’t rape a prostitute,” he stated, “that _is_ their job.”

“She wasn’t willing to continue having sex with you. She wanted to stop. You forced her, hurt her and then left her to bleed out to death.”

Alran could not deny this statement. Flustered and aggravated, he turned to the King, “Your Grace, you know me. My father has fought for you against Jaime. _I_ will fight for you until my dying breath, I’m not just some random man, you trust me. What happened was unfortunate but I did not kill her. I did not commit any crime! It was all an accident. And there’s no proof of what happened!”

Daenerys was quick to realise how right that woman in the village had been, how many other powerful men had gotten away with things like this?

She would never be able to get justice for them all, that much was impossible, but she could get justice for Rayla. And especially Marra.

Helplessly, she gazed at Jon. Who slowly turned his head to her. “He’s right, no one can prove it was not an accident,” he told her.

The fire inside of her intensified. “He admitted she was struggling to get away from him. She was bleeding! He didn’t even help her.” She approached Jon, desperate, “He thought he would get away with this. Like they always do. Don’t let him get away with this, please.”

Jon scanned her face. “I’m not doing anything today, Daenerys. Remember? It’s all your choice. You didn’t let me finish, we don’t have any proof of anything he did _but_ luckily for you, I’ve never cared much for proof.” He cocked his head sideways and reached up to touch her face, fingertips brushing against her heated skin, “so, tell me what you want to do, Daenerys.”

She couldn’t believe he was letting her choose such an important thing, a man’s fate, a man’s life.

Alran suspected something was off. “My King, please…” he chuckled anxiously, “you don’t mean to punish me for-for some commoner, some whore’s death, that is absurd. I-I’m the master-at-arms.”

 _All lives are worth the same_ , Daenerys thought bitterly.

_I want to be with my mother._

These were the last words Marra had whispered to her when they left her at the orphanage. Her eyes were so big and full of hope, begging Daenerys to take her back to her mother. In a sense, she felt connected to the little girl. But Daenerys’ mother was still alive, even if she was far away from her, whereas that little girl would grow up without a mother’s love, without a family while the man who did that to her didn’t think it mattered enough for him to deserve to pay for it.

Her ire wound around her soul like veins. The forgiving, kind part of her heart was losing this battle, the cold image of Marra’s mother’s lifeless body appearing behind her eyelids every time she blinked.

“He deserves to die,” she finally said, the words freeing but also, a crucial turning point in her life. The first time she ordered someone’s death. Not secretly wish it or watch it happen but _ordered_ it, she was the one killing him. No one else but her.

Jon nodded once. “And do you want it to be painless or painful?” he asked softly.

His thumb caressed her cheekbone. Her pale eyes clashed into his dark ones. Pain—that was all Marra had known for several days now, and somewhere, she was certain the girl was still crying to this very moment. Pain—that was most definitely the last thing Rayla experienced before she died.

“Painful.”

The fire inside her took over her whole body, mind and soul. Only her heart remained unscathed.

* * *

She’d like to say she didn’t know what she was getting herself into when she asked for this. But, that would be a lie. She _knew_ what would happen next.

They were underground, someplace dark and closed off from the rest of the world. Jon didn’t allow anyone else to come with them—only Daenerys and the man whose life was about to end.

“I like carrying out executions down here,” Jon said as he tied Lord Alran’s hands behind a pole. He’d stuffed a piece of cloth in the man’s mouth and that succeeded in muffling his cries of protest. Now, he was just writhing and grunting, sweat covering his forehead, his eyes wide open. “No one hears the screams,” the King added, securing the rope—tighter and tighter. “We don’t want to disturb anyone else, do we?”

Daenerys clasped her hands together. “What are you going to do to him?”

“Ah, you see, beheading isn’t as painful as people think. I mean, I’ve never experienced it,” he paused, smiling at Daenerys and she thought, _he really needs to stop joking during tense moments,_ “but if done right – and I’ve never missed – it’s one quick, sharp stroke. The body doesn’t even get the chance to be signalled to feel pain that the person’s already dead. And that’s not what you want, is it?”

 _You want._ He was making sure to put all of this on her, making her the sole responsible for whatever was about to happen. “No,” she answered despite the man’s cries. She found that she felt _nothing_ for him, no pity whatsoever, “he doesn’t deserve a clean death.”

Jon shrugged as he moved away from Alran, approaching Daenerys. He had a dark, insidious glint in his eyes. “What does he deserve then?”

He was doing this to reaffirm her wishes, she knew. She could change her mind now and she had a feeling he would let her, she could ask him to free that man now and, strangely enough, Jon would probably allow this to happen.

She took a beat. “Pain. He should suffer for what he did to that woman, to that little girl.”

His lips curled. “You know what you’re asking for, Daenerys,” he stated quietly.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Jon walked away from her and grabbed one of the torches from the wall. Alran began shaking his head, deep, petrified grunts coming from his throat. Alas, he was only able to watch as the King walked up to him. “I really did like you,” Jon declared, sighing a little before he dropped the lit torch to his feet.

He didn’t burn easily.

It was slow. From his feet, where the fire began, slowly but surely riding a path up to his waist. The flames got brighter, the air got thicker and greyer with smoke. His groans of pain varied—from high-pitched squeals when the fire just started to spread to almost inhumane growls when more of him burned.

It was a disturbingly slow process yet, she never once looked away. She couldn’t even bring herself to blink, afraid she was going to miss a bit, her chest rapidly as she watched a man get burned alive, her lips parting in wonder.

At some point, his sounds of pain stopped, and the fire rose so high, turned so wild, raging and roaring, that one couldn’t possibly tell who was inside of it—just a blackened limp body.

* * *

 _He_ came to her that evening.

Knocked on her door. Ordered all of the guards away.

Perhaps there was truly some sort of connection between them, because she knew it was him before she opened the door.

And when she did, when her eyes bore into his, aching to pinpoint every emotion swirling in his unreadable grey depths, she also knew how this night would end.

A silent invitation was given to him when she pushed the door open, letting him follow her inside.

“Have you already dined?” Jon asked.

A weird query but she nodded. “Yes, I have. Thank you.” Awkwardly, she turned to face him, asking, “and you?”

He looked amused. “So have I. I’ve come to see if you are alright.”

She shrugged meekly. “I’m okay.”

He looked around her bedchambers, casually invading her space as she stood and watched him, growing more fidgety as the silence stretched on indefinitely. He finally stopped to look at her at her. “Did you like it?” he asked.

She blinked, nonplussed. “ _Like_ is not an appropriate word. I told you, I think he deserved to die.”

“Beheading would’ve worked too.” He quirked his right brow at her. “ _You_ specifically chose this method.”

“I didn’t,” she said, “he should’ve suffered. I did not _specify_ how.” Was this her trying to shift the blame on him?

Jon laughed. “What happened to merciful Daenerys?”

She stared at him haughtily. “Not everyone deserves mercy,” she decided.

He smiled slowly. “You knew I’d burn him alive,” he stated.

She clasped and unclasped her now clammy hands. Brushed them along her dress. “I wasn’t certain,” she muttered.

“And you wanted it. You decided everything that happened, Daenerys, not me. And you know that.”

She didn’t like where this was going, his accusatory tone… “What are you trying to say?”

“That maybe,” he paused and trailed the backs of his fingers along her bedpost before meeting her gaze once more, a wicked gleam in them, “we’re not so different, you and I.”

 _No._ “We are.” She spoke louder than intended.

“I made you Queen for one day and you already burned someone alive,” he teased.

She gritted her teeth. “You’ve seen that little girl. And her mother’s corpse. The right thing was done.”

Jon tsk’ed. “I mean, we’ll never _know_ what actually happened that night.” He seemed to be having a great time toying with her, his voice light and playful as he took a few steps towards her. “Perhaps it was truly an accident. A terrible, terrible accident. Maybe he was innocent.”

If he was looking to strike a nerve, get her angry, it was working. “Stop,” she demanded.

He didn’t. _Of course, he wouldn’t._ He crowded her space, walked behind her. “What was your favourite part?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. She felt his presence, felt the heat from his body seep into hers as well as his hot breath on the nape of her neck. “Was it when he screamed?” His voice was infiltrating her senses, mouth inching closer to her right ear. “Or when he stopped and there was a chilling silence?” His lips brushed against the shell of her ear and she shuddered a breath out.

“Stop,” she pleaded again, softer this time.

He chuckled darkly. “Or was it the smell?”

She whirled around, gazing up at him. “Nothing,” she ground out, “I took no pleasure in it, trust me.”

“Liar,” he murmured, his smile a sinister thing.

“I’m not lying,” she pressed but her voice wavered and her insides itched.

“Your eyes tell me something else,” he said. “I know you more than you think, Daenerys.”

“You know _nothing_ about me,” she seethed.

His grin got wider. “Another lie.” He shook his head in disappointment. “This hunger you have for more _fire_ , I can help you with that.”

“Stop this, please,” she begged.

“Embrace it, Daenerys. Stop hiding.” Another step. “Don’t hide from it.” He was so close now she could feel his words rather than hear them. “You’re not innocent little Daenerys anymore,” he cooed, his right hand brushing her hair back from her shoulder and then replacing it with his fingers, his thumb swiping along her throat, tipping her head up so she could look him in the eyes as he taunted her with his words. “You have blood on your hands.” He brushed against her stammering pulse, “ _and you love it._ ”

This was it. She’d had enough.

She _slapped_ him.

What followed was the most dreadful silence ever. He took one step back, shocked, his hand slowing rising to his face, his cheek reddening, her palm tingling. Daenerys gasped, breathing heavily, eyes bulging.

He slowly looked at her, his lips curling. If she’d meant to apologise, the words never came to life. Instead, he came forward, “ _that_ ’s an act of treason.”

She could not believe she just slapped the King.

Daenerys started backing away from him, the acquisitive look in his eyes thrilling—no, no, _scaring_ her. Yes. She was afraid of him. Definitely. Her back hit the surface of the door and his body pressed up against hers fully. She held in her breath. “You should be punished for that,” he growled and his mouth was on hers.

The sound she let out was embarrassing, moaning like she’d been desperate for this for centuries now. And how fast she responded to his kiss was even more humiliating. She couldn’t even bother to pretend to want him off of her.

Jon kissed her so desperately, so furiously it hurt. His nose bumped into hers as he angled his face to take more from her mouth, bruising her, intrusively seeking her tongue with his own, thrusting into her mouth like he wished to snake down her throat and poison her body.

She was shaking against the door, too many sensations for her to function properly. Her brain dozed off, clearly not interested in trying to talk her out of this. Perhaps it just knew this was a lost cause. Her heart roared, beating so fast it drowned out every other sound in the room, not that there were many anyway.

Her hands came to his shoulders for leverage, to try and support her suddenly weak body. Jon helped, curling his left arm around her petite waist as his right hand came up to her throat, wrapping around it. She was only vaguely aware of his movement, too busy kissing him to care if he wanted to choke her to death. It was pathetic how wanton she’d become in just a few seconds, when she’d just slapped him before this—kissing him like this was what she was born to do.

He pulled away from her, leaving her gasping from how intense this had just been. For once, he didn’t seem as stoic as he usually was, his eyes glazed over with lust, breaths coming out ragged and broken. He pressed her into the door with the hand around her neck and she brought her hands up to his wrist, fingers grasping at him. “I should kill you for what you just did,” he said.

She didn’t reply, holding his gaze, her smallclothes embarrassingly wet at a death threat. He scoffed, “You’re not even scared, are you?”

She licked her lips and his gaze fell to her mouth. He let go of her throat, wrapping both arms around her as he bent his head to kiss her again, nipping at her lower lip teasingly. She encircled his neck with her arms, pulling him closer to her. Jon slid her hands down her back, to her bottom, cupping her ass. She shrieked a little against his lips as he fondled with her cheeks and went lower still, his large hands wrapping under her thighs to lift her up.

He carried her to her bed and dropped her on it like she weighed nothing. There was nothing slow in the way they did things that evening, no time for pretenses and foreplay. She wanted him so bad she was burning and aching with it. Their kisses turned frantic and more aggressive. At some point, she bit so hard on his bottom lip, trapping the flesh between her teeth and pulling, that her taste buds were greeted with the metallic taste of blood.

He groaned, breaking the kiss to stare down at her.

He was beautiful, his neat hair now in complete disarray, courtesy of her delving fingers. Even with his lips bruised and bleeding, he was delectable.

She was certain she was the first person to slap _and_ bite the King—and still end up alive. Better yet, alive and kissing him.

He gave her neck the same attention her lips received. Kissing and biting, occasionally licking at the skin which would make her cunt pulsate with pleasure.

She didn’t know it was possible to _want_ this much. It was a strange, unusual feeling but it was so powerful she could scarcely breathe. Even more powerful than sitting on the Throne or watching someone burn alive. Why did no one tell her about such pleasure before? Why was he, out of all people, the only one to drive her so crazy with lust?

He seemed equally as frenzied at her, his fingers snagging at the hooks and buttons along the front of her dress. He cursed against her throat. “How do you get this fucking thing off?” he growled out at her. His impatience got the best of him, and her dress suffered. The sound of the fabric ripping overpowered the drumming of her thundering heart.

She would’ve been upset about such a pretty gown being destroyed if her mind could still produce coherent thoughts when his lips began kissing down her chest. She moaned when he licked around one stiff peak, cruelly teasing her, not giving her the sensations she craved.

She bit her lip to stop herself from begging him. She was already humiliating herself, being so desperate for him, she had to save some dignity. He knew what he was doing to her. His dark gaze meeting her own as he peppered soft, barely there kisses between her aching breasts, nosing at her exposed skin. “You seem like you want to say something, Daenerys,” he teased. “Say it.”

She stubbornly kept her mouth shut.

He climbed back up to her, hovering above her mouth. “I’m leaving if you won’t tell me what you want,” he warned.

“No,” the word slipped out of her lips before she could think twice about it. _Gods, he already knows how much you want him, there’s no point in hiding._ “Please.”

“Please what? Leave?” he teased, kissing her cheek.

She sighed. “Please…touch me.”

He laughed and went back to her neglected breasts, closing his mouth around a nipple. Daenerys closed her eyes, back arching into his mouth. It felt so good. It was not like this when she touched herself. Her own fingers were nothing compared to his lips and tongue teasing the taut nub, his other hand cupping the twin, thumb flicking her nipple.

Her hands, although weak, grabbed at his gambeson, wanting to see him as naked as she was. He understood her wishes, sitting up to take it off and then getting rid of the loose, white tunic underneath right after. Daenerys’ eyes went to his chest, marred with scars. She licked her lips, trying to ignore the urge of wanting to put her mouth on each and every one of them.

He helped her out of her dress completely, tossing the torn gown aside before taking a moment to look down at her body. She suddenly felt very self-conscious, her thighs closing instinctively even if she still had her smallclothes on. Something he was planning to remedy.

When he got them off, Jon placed a hand between her legs, rubbing along her inner thigh. She shivered.

“Spread your legs for me, Daenerys,” he said against her ear, kissing her bare shoulder in a way that was too tender to be real.

She shyly pried her legs open for him. He continued kissing her collarbone, then her neck, then breast as his right hand went up and down her inner thigh, each time getting closer to where she needed him the most.

“Please,” she said again, a bit breathlessly, a shaky edge to her voice, “I need—please, touch me.”

She hated the way he smiled against the underside of her breast. Finally, his knuckles grazed her centre. They both inhaled sharply. “I can’t imagine what your _little friend_ Gendry would say,” he murmured, his thumb encircling her clit as his fingers rubbed her slit, “if he knew you just had a man burned alive and, hours later, you are here, begging for me to make you feel good. Mhm, he’d be so disappointed in you, wouldn’t he?”

She squeezed her eyes shut as her hips involuntarily began grinding against his fingers, seeking that friction. How could she want _him_ so much? “I hate you,” she whispered.

He heard her. Slid a finger into her cunt. Daenerys thrashed around the digit pumping in and out of her, torturously slow, his thumb still teasing her swollen clit, his mouth biting at her breast. She felt like she could combust and die from all these stimulations. “Tell me again,” he said, “how much you hate me.”

“I hate you,” she bit out more forcefully.

_I hate all the things you do to me. But I also hate that I don’t want you to stop, ever._

“Mhm? And your mother.” She stilled, eyes wide. “What would she think of her pretty, _good_ daughter sprawled on her bed, begging the King to fuck her? _Her nephew._ Tst, tst, tst. I don’t think Rhaella would like that very much, would she, aunt Daenerys?”

A second finger. Fucking her faster, harder. She’d never dared put two fingers inside of her but she was so wet, her walls quivering with need, that she didn’t feel any pain. She wanted more, more, more. Everything. His words should disgust her but her body wouldn’t listen, offering itself to him, surrendering to the things he was doing to her. “ _Please_ ,” she sobbed.

“More?” he asked, curling his fingers deep inside her cunt, a violent shudder tracing down her spine.

“Y-yes. More, more.”

He increased the velocity, watched as she fell apart and groaned at the way her walls convulsed around his slender digits when she came. Hard. Shaking so violently her body rose from the bed, her juices coating his fingers, dripping down her thighs and the bed.

Jon took his fingers out and put them in his mouth, Daenerys’ cheeks heating up at the filthy way he licked at them. With a wicked look, he bent down to kiss her. She tasted herself on his tongue, sweet and salty, and moaned deeply into his mouth, feeling herself getting wet again already. He knelt on the bed, between her knees, drawing them further apart and gazing down at her soaked, swollen pussy.

Daenerys stared in anticipation as he took himself in hand and aligned his cock with her glistening slit. He ran the head up and down her nether lips, making her writhe and whine. “ _Please,_ ” she begged, no longer caring about shame now. If she didn’t have him inside of her soon, she was going to die.

He lowered himself on top of her, her bare breasts grazing his chest as he kissed her lips. It was soft this time, confusing her, because this whole thing was born out of _hatred_ and frustration, right? It had to be. This was only an expression of resentment. But against her lips, he gently murmured, “tell me to stop if it hurts.” There was no sign of amusement in his voice, nor teasing. He was dead serious.

Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded.

When he thrust into her, slowly, it did hurt. She gasped loudly, her hands shooting up to grab onto his back, nails digging sharply into his skin as he filled her cunt, stretching her walls.

But she wouldn’t tell him of the hurt, not until she felt the pleasure. And _gods,_ it was so worth it. The pinpricks of pain subsided after a moment and when he began moving inside of her, his length swallowed by her heat, over and over, she was no longer hurting anywhere. There was only pleasure—overwhelming, hot, sizzling pleasure. Better than anything she’d ever experienced, even lemon cakes.

She moaned a bit too loudly and he covered her mouth with a bruising kiss that she welcomed, using his lips to conceal her mewls and sobs of pleasure.

He felt _so, so_ good inside of her. Her hips snapped with his to meet his thrusts whose pace began to pick up. He groaned into her mouth when she wrapped her legs around his torso, clenching around his cock.

“ _Fuck,_ ” he breathed into her mouth, “you’re so _tight._ I’m not going to last long.”

She cried in answer, fingers clawing at his back as he plowed into her relentlessly, mercilessly. One hand gripped her hip, holding her in place as he used the other to lift her leg, spreading her out to get a deeper angle. It was better, more intense, _so_ intense in fact that stars flashed behind her eyelids, the warm build-up in her stomach reaching a new, vigorous climax.

He buried his face into the crook of her neck, skin slapping against hers, the bed shaking as they took everything from each other. Her breasts bounced with every push of his hips and she came with a shudder, eyes pinched shut as a sob escaped her mouth, her toes curling. Convulsing around his cock, her channel tightened around his length and Jon grunted, sounding like he was in pain, his teeth biting on her shoulder as he emptied his seed into her warm, wet cunt. She knew he’d left bruises everywhere, from her neck to her thighs, and that if anyone had walked down the hallway they would definitely know what was happening inside, but as she felt his seed drip out from where they were joined, his hips still weakly thrusting into hers, she found that she did not care.

_What have I done?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couples that burn people, fight, get horny then fuck stay together...right? No? Okay. 
> 
> I might not be able to update before next year, so happy holidays everyone. As always, I'd love to hear what you think.
> 
> And if you have any questions (or if you want to beta this, seriously, I really need one I suck at editing) hit me up on tumblr: @rhhaenyra


	8. Chapter 8

**viii. the aftermath**

When she awoke, she was alone in her bed.

She did not expect him to stay, she knew staying was for lovers and what they did was a lot of things, but not love, and so she knew he would not spend the night in her bedchambers and hold her close to him as they drifted off to a calm sleep.

But she also didn’t realise she’d fall asleep so quickly. She had just turned her back to him, closing her eyes for a moment to allow her body to calm down and thought that she would come to her senses and ask him to leave. But the next time Daenerys opened her eyes, the sun was already out and Aegon was already gone.

She sat up on her bed, wincing at the sweet feeling of soreness between her thighs. The ghost of his hands remained on her skin, especially the places he’d gripped hard enough to bruise; her thighs, her hips, her throat… She was afraid to face the looking glass, for she was sure the phantom of his touches was now imprinted on her skin, tainting her.

Daenerys felt a chill breeze enter her room through her windows and gathered the furs closer around her body, clutching them to her naked form. They smelled of him.

From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of the dress he’d ruined last night in a hurry to get her naked. She blushed at the memory—at all the memories, really, and wondered what was wrong with her.

It was one thing to indulge harmless fantasies about Jon because that was all they ever were—harmless. A fragment of her creative imagination. But it was another matter entirely to give herself to him so willingly, beg for him to touch her like she no longer had any morals or values.

She dropped her head in her hands, groaning.

Her mother would…

Daenerys didn’t even know what Rhaella would do if she knew. She didn’t want to think about it.

She got up and drew a hot bath for herself. Scalding, actually.

Even as the heat melted into her and became one with her skin, it couldn’t burn away _his_ touch.

* * *

Daenerys had not heard from the King again since the previous night. She realised so after she had breakfast and went for a walk in the courtyard. Gilly, Sam’s wife, was with her and the guards Jon had appointed to follow her around were looming in the background.

They passed by where she had seen Aegon train and didn’t find him there.

She was not worried but something felt off about how they left things. They did not speak of what happened, he left her room like he was never there in the first place, not caring to leave a note or perhaps a message to someone to ask for Daenerys’ presence later. Shouldn’t they talk about what happened? One moment he was there, making her feel so good she forgot who they were and the next, she awoke alone, and he was nowhere to be seen. Literally.

“Have you seen His Grace today?” Daenerys asked, as casually as she could, as they trotted down the stables.

Gilly was as lovely as her husband, always warm and welcoming to Daenerys. And just like Sam, she seemed to love their King – even told Daenerys that she would name her next child ‘Jon’ if it was a boy. “I know he doesn’t like the name’s meaning too much,” she’d said, “but I think he would still be honoured.”

Gilly shrugged at her query. “I haven’t but he must be with Sam. We can go look for them if you wish.”

She frowned, finding herself wondering if he was avoiding her on purpose.

“No, let’s continue our walk first,” Daenerys said with a smile, because she didn’t want to seem desperate to seek out Jon. She had nothing to tell him, anyway, there was just something itching inside of her to see him after all that had happened. Just to know what his state of mind was concerning _them_.

Once they had completed a tour around the stables and gardens, they began looking for the two men. Their search ended at the War Room where a man guarding the door prevented them from entering, “The King is having a meeting with his council inside. He doesn’t wish to be interrupted. You can wait here.”

Daenerys was thinking of leaving before she saw the look of worry on Gilly’s face. “What is it?” the Targaryen princess asked.

“It’s just…they usually only discuss battle plans in there,” Gilly revealed, frowning, “I hope we’re not on the verge of war.”

That had never crossed Daenerys’ mind. Now, she was nervous too. Would they all be in danger soon? How would she go back home if she died here?

When the meeting was over, the members of the small council poured out of the room. At last, Sam and Jon appeared. The former had a concerned look on his face which dissolved when he saw his wife, giving way to happiness. Daenerys envied how in love they seemed to be.

On the other hand, Aegon barely spared her a glance, making her furrow her brows.

“What’s happening, Sam? Is everything alright?” Gilly asked.

It was the King who had answered. “Robb Stark wishes to avenge his father. He wants war—and we’ll give him it.”

With that, he walked away, brushing past a very confused and rattled Dany. As he moved past her she caught a whiff of his smell of leather and that _thing_ that was so distinctly him, the scent she woke up covered in.

She was worried about the North’s revenge. But she was also worried about Jon’s coldness and why it affected her so.

Was the intimacy they shared last night something out of her imagination?

* * *

Daenerys sought out Missandei.

She had to speak with someone and there was only one person who would truly understand and possibly help her.

She was pacing the room nervously when her friend entered. Daenerys embraced her.

“I have to get back to work, Daenerys,” Missandei hissed but hugged her tighter, “Are you alright?” she pulled back and observed the girl’s face with wide eyes.

While Dany was older than Missandei, she was the big sister between the two of them. She had more experience than Daenerys in most things and always tried to advise her on different matters.

Daenerys bolted the door shut before turning back to her friend, her chest heavy. “Something happened,” she said.

Missandei’s brows rose. “Is it something bad?”

Daenerys didn’t know the answer to that. “No, yes…I don’t know. Maybe.”

She sighed. “Just tell me.”

“I lost my maidenhead.”

Missandei’s first question that followed a gasp of surprise was, “ _Who_?”

Daenerys froze. She couldn’t possibly say Aegon, could she? She feared being judged, even if this was her closest friend. Gulping, she said, “Some…boy.”

Missandei rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t expecting a girl. Why aren’t you telling me who it is?”

Daenerys looked away, nervous.

Missi chuckled. “Do you not know his name? Have you _fucked_ a stranger, Daenerys? That’s very naughty.”

“No, no. It was not a stranger.”

“Ah, fine. Keep your secrets.” She pretended not to care but Daenerys knew her by now and was aware that she would force her to tell her the truth later. “What worries you so?”

“I think he has been avoiding me,” she mumbled, feeling like a little girl who didn’t know what was happening around her. “I don’t understand what it means…his silence.”

Missandei’s eyes softened. “Daenerys,” she began with a drawn-out sigh, “Some men are like this. They only care about getting what they want from a woman and then, they do not wish to keep seeing you.”

Daenerys frowned. Was that truly what this whole thing was about? Jon being nice to her, giving her attention…was it just to lay with her and afterwards, toss her aside? Feeling like a fool, she replied, “It's not a big deal. I just wish he’d say the words to me. I do not care for him either.”

Missandei looked at her pitifully. “You deserve someone who truly cares for you, Daenerys, and it doesn’t have to be him.”

* * *

_Mother,_

_It has been over two moons that we have been separated now. It still pains me greatly, the way we left each other, but I need you to know that I am doing better. The King is not as cruel as many say he is._

Daenerys stopped, frowning. Perhaps she worded this wrong.

_The King is not as cruel to me as I thought he would be,_ she reworded and nodded to herself before continuing, _and he has allowed me to write to you. I miss you immensely. I miss the beach, the smell of the sea, and our long walks. I miss riding horses with you and the way you used to braid my hair. I’ve told you of my friend, Missandei. She braids my hair now. She is the sweetest soul. I hope you are doing well. Do not worry about me, the only thing that could hurt me is knowing you are unwell. So, please, take care of yourself, mother._

_Waiting to hear back from you,_

_Daenerys._

She placed the quill down and stared at the letter she had written. She reread every word, knowing the King would also read them before sending it out, and when she decided that it was fine, she let it dry.

It was at that time that Gendry came knocking at her door.

When Daenerys found him, his blue eyes staring directly at her as she pushed the door open, her eyes grew wide. “What are you doing here?” she hissed, pulling him in by his wrist and shutting the door quickly behind him. “What if someone had seen you?”

He dodged her question with one of his own, “have you been avoiding me?”

“What? No.”

His frown deepened. “I barely see you anymore.”

Since he did not wish to answer her question, she felt no obligation to respond to his. “Sansa Stark said that she didn’t want her people to go to war. Yet, I’m hearing that her brother wishes to attack.”

“You’ve already heard of this?” Gendry asked, then sighed softly. “Sansa is one thing and Robb another. He’s not so forgiving, nor as patient as Sansa is. He wants Aegon to pay for what he did to Ned. Which is understandable, he is a man and doesn’t have the gentle heart his sister might have.”

“Are you going, as well? To this battle?”

“We all are. We’re leaving tomorrow.” He licked his lips. “Which is why I wished to see you one last time. But you don’t seem happy to see me.”

“I am,” she said, softening, “I am,” she repeated.

She cared for Gendry and wanted his well-being but ever since he’d spoken to her about his and Varys’ plots against Aegon…Daenerys had been on edge about it. She didn’t know where she stood in all of that, where she _should_ stand.

Gendry sensed that. He nodded slowly, “Have you thought about it? About what Varys and I told you?”

_There_. The conversation she was wishing to avoid, the reason she’d been running from Gendry. She did not know what to say. “Gendry, I still don’t believe it’s a good idea.”

Immediately, his eyes hardened. “I see,” he gritted out.

She was confused. “What do you see?”

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with him lately,” he commented, his voice clipped.

Her mouth dried up. “He-he’s been demanding that I do.”

“Oh, is that all this is about? He demands and you obey? Or, do you enjoy yourself with him?”

His words were sharp and full of disdain.

“Gendry,” she said again, tiredly, “I’m not against you. I care for you and I—”

She cut herself off when he shook his head at her firmly. “You are either with me or against me. You can’t be both.”

Why did he want to make her feel guilty as such? Shouldn’t friends understand one another? Could he not sense her dilemma?

“I’m not against you,” she repeated, louder this time. “And it’s for your own good and safety that I’m asking you not to try anything against Aegon. You know he won’t forgive people who betray him. Maybe there’s another approach to this. Maybe he needs the right people giving him the right counsel.”

“Oh gods, Dany,” Gendry said, scoffing, running his hands over his face. “Fuck! You’re _defending_ him.”

Was she? “No I’m not! But, there could be someone worse than him on the Throne.”

Frustration found home in his voice. He grabbed her shoulders, shaking and startling her. “And there could be someone much better, why are you taking his side? He kidnapped you, took you away from your mother and your home!”

“Do not yell at me,” she snapped, pushing his hands away.

Gendry stumbled back, blinking a few times. “Sorry, I…” he trailed off.

“It’s fine,” she said, regaining composure. “I’m not on his side,” she added incredulously. “I’m trying to see things critically.”

“You’re saying he can change.”

She didn’t see the wrong in that. “People do change,” she stated, calmer than before.

“ _You_ are not going to change him. That’s a nice dream, but this is reality. Is it because he’s nice to you that you believe he has good in him?” He waved his hands around. “We’re marching into war by his side tomorrow. Hundreds, if not, thousands of men are going to die, men who don’t even wish to fight for him! You think it’s going to end here?” Gendry began walking back and forth in front of her, seething. “The North is just the beginning. Next, who knows, maybe Dorne will attack. Do you know how many prisoners he’s kept, how many have died? He has enemies all over the country. Blood will keep spilling. Not his blood, no, but ours.” He stood before her, breathing heavily. “Don’t you wish to go back home?”

Daenerys licked her lips. “Of course, I—”

“Good. Many are like you. Many want to be free. I want to serve someone who’s worthy of being King.” He reached out to grab her face, cupping her cheeks in his hands, pressing a bit too hard for her liking. There was desperation in his eyes. “I’ll be gone for gods know how long. So, promise me when I come back, you’ll have an answer for me. Promise me you’ll think about it—think of all the ways we could all be happier without him.”

She needed to know, “If I say yes, then…”

“We'll kill him, Dany. We'll get out of here but first we'll destroy him,” he promised. His voice was filled with anger and determination.

Daenerys nodded, but the sick and dangerous part was she wasn't sure she wanted to escape anymore. She wasn't sure she wanted to harm him.

He grabbed onto her face tighter, the intensity of his gaze making her stomach churn. “You promise? That when—if—I come back, you’ll have a definite answer for me?”

“I promise,” she vowed, not having too much of a choice.

* * *

When Daenerys was done pretending that she was indifferent to Jon’s sudden treatment of her, or lack thereof, regret began to seep in.

Regret that she’d taken him to bed. If she craved a man’s touch so badly, she could’ve found someone else. There were many noblemen to choose from and she was far from being ugly, she knew, so she was certain she would’ve found someone willing and wanting.

Someone she did not hate. Someone who wasn’t her brother’s son, preferably.

She regretted that he was her _first_ . He would always be. Even if she found someone else in the future, and she promised herself that she _would_ , he would always be the first man to have kissed her. To have taken her clothes off. To have touched her in all the most intimate places. To have fucked her.

She’d given him a part of herself that she would never get back. Rhaella would be angry at her if she knew. She told Daenerys about how important it was for a lady to save her virtue for her husband and how her body should only belong to that man, _no one else before him_ , and Daenerys had given all of herself to Aegon. The Cruel King. Her nephew.

Regret morphed into irritation. If that was all she was to him, someone to fuck and let go of, why wasn’t he brave enough to tell her? Why speak of prophecies and visions of how they were ‘destined for each other’ if she clearly meant nothing to him?

She went to see him after a whole day of him ignoring her like she was some kind of disease.

But his guards stopped her. “Has the King requested your presence?” one of them asked.

Daenerys blinked. “No, but I wish to see him.”

The two men looked at each other. The one with the white beard said, “He only sees people he has requested to see. He doesn’t wish to be disturbed tonight.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Tell him it’s Daenerys.”

“If he wanted you to be an exception, he would’ve told us,” the man replied, narrowing his eyes at her.

“I _need_ to speak with him,” she repeated.

The guards looked at each other blankly once more before dragging their eyes back to her. Neither uttered another word.

“Fine,” she said, “if you won’t call for him, I will start screaming.”

“What?”

“I’ll just do it.”

“Don’t—don’t do anything stupid, go back to your rooms.”

She did not care if she was being childish, with a shrug, she announced, “I’ll start in three, two…”

They shifted on their feet awkwardly.

She glared at them. “One,” she warned.

“Gods, if I get killed for disturbing him it’s your fault,” the younger man spoke to her, scowling as he turned to rap his knuckles against the door.

Daenerys held back a victorious smile.

Aegon pulled the door open, just the slightest, enough to speak to the man who knocked. “What is it?” His voice was gruff and irritated. “I asked to be left alone.”

“Someone is here for you, My King.”

“I do not care. Send them back and—”

“It’s me,” Daenerys interjected.

He stopped talking for several moments. Then, he said, “You can leave.”

She frowned. “I wish to speak to you,” she said.

“Not you,” Jon clarified, “you two. Go.”

“Oh,” Daenerys let out as she watched the two men walk away without another question.

Aegon pushed the door wider and sighed. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

She forgot how impatient he was. With a deep breath, she entered his sleeping quarters.

Jon acted like she wasn’t in the same room as him. He walked to his table, where he apparently left off, and went back to whatever he was doing with his swords. He had the most beautiful but deadliest looking weapons she’d ever seen. And was taking care of them like they were his babies, inspecting the daggers under the orange glow of lit candles, using a piece of cloth to clean the blades.

She shook her head, snapping out of her trance. “Have you been avoiding me?”

To his credit, he was honest. “Yes,” he answered, still not looking up at her, engrossed in the task at hand.

Her throat tightened. “Why?”

“Because of what happened last night.”

_Obviously_. “That doesn’t explain why,” she tried again.

Jon paused. He put down the dagger he was holding and just when she thought he’d finally turn his attention to _her_ , he picked up another knife. A sharper one, its handle made of gold. “Daenerys,” he spoke her name so smoothly, so _hotly_ it nearly undid her, “I know you. I knew you would wake up, hate yourself for what we did and possibly, hate me more. I knew you would regret it, badly, and dig yourself a hole of self-pity and guilt to jump in. I do not have time for any of this. Especially not with Robb Stark’s threats. So, I spared you the pain of having to go through all of this. We’ll pretend nothing happened. You can pretend to still be Rhaella’s pure daughter who did nothing wrong and everything will be fine.”

She was angry at him. Angry that he was absolutely right, knew every single thing she felt, but what she loathed the most was that he was assuming what she wished to do.

She was tired of this constantly happening.

She had grown up obeying her mother’s orders and following all her wishes. She got trapped in here because of Jon’s wishes. She was being forced to make a hard choice because of Gendry’s wishes. And now, Jon wished to control what she should and shouldn’t forget, making a decision for her—one that she had no say in, apparently.

When would someone care about what she wished for?

Last night was something she desired. She did not do it for Rhaella or Gendry or even Jon. She did it because she craved it, and perhaps it was her worst decision ever, perhaps there was something wrong with her to want someone like him, but she did.

Last night was hers. She loved it and hated it, regretted it and didn’t, wanted to do it all over again and never wished to think of it again.

Whatever conflicting feelings she had about it, they were her feelings and only she was allowed to dictate what she wanted to do with then. It was a purely selfish desire she undertook— she would not let anyone take this away from her or assume what she should feel about it.

“I don’t want to pretend it never happened,” she snapped, striding forward, “and if I wanted to, it would be up to me. Not you. Perhaps you should’ve consulted me first before assuming what I felt.”

He was dumbfounded by her outburst, finally glancing up at her through long lashes, his dark eyes caging her in. Like always, they were all-too-consuming. “Assuming?” he sounded oddly amused, “you’ve made it _clear_ you hate me, Daenerys. I’m not assuming anything.”

Her whole face was aflame as she admitted, “desire and hate are not mutually exclusive feelings.”

Jon’s eyes darkened. She recognised the look, because she knew she looked at him the same way. Lust mixed with something darker, more primal. “So,” he drawled, standing up, his weapon forgotten, “you hate me, but you want me.”

It was not a question, but she found herself nodding numbly.

He finally _looked_ at her again, truly looked at her, like he did last night. His intense eyes dancing across her face, then down to her throat. There was a slight furrow in between his brows as he lifted his right hand, pushing her silver hair off one shoulder and gently nudging her dress aside. She held in a breath, hoping this was when he would begin touching her again. Make her feel good again. She still craved it—him. Once was not enough. Perhaps nothing will ever be enough when it came to him.

Instead, he must’ve seen something he did not like for he frowned deeper, displeasure clouding his entire face. “I’ve hurt you,” he said.

“What?” Her voice came out in a little, breathless pant.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked this time.

She swallowed. “No,” she said, then added, “maybe a little.”

He sighed and dropped his hand and she wanted to grab it and place it back on her skin again, for she felt so cold without it—and she never felt cold. “I didn’t want to hurt you,” he declared, “but I know I did. I knew I would.” He sounded like he hated himself for it.

She frowned. “You did nothing I didn’t want you to do.” Even the pain felt good. She wanted more of it, she realised, she _needed_ more of him. She wanted him to break her and put the pieces back together himself. She deserved pain for wanting him so much. She deserved to be punished for her dark, forbidden desires.

“I can’t have you. I’ve been with other women before,” he informed her, and that piece of information confused and unnerved her, “but you’re not them.”

The stab of rancour she felt in her chest took her by surprise. She did not fool herself into thinking he’d never taken a lover before, he was the King, after all, and a beautiful one at that. She knew he must’ve had many a woman on his bed.

But it stung that he compared her to them and decided she was not like them. Missandei was right. Jon only ever cared about fucking her, just to try it, and then decided he didn’t want more of it. Shame wrapped a tight fist around her heart and squeezed.

The worst part was that she _wanted_ to be like those women he spoke of. How sick was it that she wanted to be good enough for him? Wanted to know what it took to truly please him?

Even if she hated him, she wanted to be everything he wanted. Like he was everything she wanted.

Scrambling to collect the pieces of her dignity she had left, however few remained, she bowed her head. “I shall take your leave, My King,” she requested quietly.

A sigh left his lips and he was closing the distance between them, his right hand coming up to touch her face, as gently as he always did. _Don’t cry,_ she berated herself, even as the lump in her throat got so big she couldn’t swallow, her eyes prickling, _you’re so stupid—don’t cry for him. Don’t cry in front of him!_

“You’re misunderstanding me,” he said.

“Let me go,” she mumbled, refusing to meet his eyes even as he cradled her face like she was a pup, thumb trying to tilt her chin up.

“No. Listen to me. You’re not like the other women I shared a bed with. I wish you were,” he told her, voice tight, and she wondered why he enjoyed causing her so much pain. But then he said, “I wish I could fuck you without a care. I wish I could fuck you like some…whore. But I can’t. I can’t stand knowing I _hurt_ you. I’m not used to this—guilt. But I’ve been feeling it since last night, thinking that I’ve caused you harm.”

Her head snapped up, eyes widening. _This is what he meant?_ His dark grey eyes intently watched her as she reacted to his words. When they finally settled in her brain, she felt a strange warmth spread across her abdomen. It wasn’t desire, although that was definitely there too, but something akin to affection. He was worried about hurting her? “I want you to,” she whispered her most sinister wish.

He continued on staring at her. “To what?”

“Hurt me.”

He frowned. “Daenerys…”

“Make me feel good, pain and pleasure,” she added, licking her lips, “all of it.”

He let out a deep grumble, something that sounded like pure torture. Closing his eyes, the King lowered his head to hers, their foreheads pressing against each other as he held her close to him, breathing in deeply. She looked at him through heavy lids, the warmth inside of her travelling down to her centre. “You can’t say these things to me,” he said, his mouth so close to hers that she felt his exhales of breath fanning over her lips, “I want you so badly.”

She licked at her own lips, hoping to sneak in a taste of him. The warmth now turned into something more wicked, moist gathering between her legs. “I’m yours,” she replied urgently.

His eyes snapped open at this, pupils fat and black. “Say that again,” he ordered, his fingers delving into her hair, ruining the braids Missandei had worked on so carefully this morning. She did not care the slightest about the condition of her hair right then.

Daenerys gulped. “I’m yours,” she repeated, shyly, only now realising what she was saying. But she was, wasn’t she? Even unwillingly, she was his. But now, her body begged to be his. Possessed by him.

“Yes,” he breathed out, satisfied, pulling at her hair to angle her mouth for him. “Not mine,” he said, giving her bottom lip a thorough kiss, wrapping his plump lips around it and sucking. She gasped. He pulled away, “ _Only_ mine.”

The whispered words melted away all her sanity. “Yes,” she agreed. She would agree to about anything right then, just so he would make her feel good again.

As if reading her mind, he pressed a teasing kiss to the side of her mouth before saying, “Tonight, there’s only pleasure. No pain. Let me take care of you, hmm?”

The part of her brain still functioning realised he was seeking for consent, so she nodded hurriedly, even saying ‘yes’ out loud to make sure he got it.

He smiled. “Good girl,” he whispered and captured her mouth in a deep kiss.

His lips were soft and warm but he kissed her demandingly, possessively.

Before she could reciprocate, though, he was kissing down her throat and neck. She sighed in both pleasure and frustration. Did his idea of making her feel good include teasing? She wasn’t sure she could take more of that.

He left open-mouthed kisses along the column of her neck, never biting, just his lips caressing her skin in feather-soft touches. He reached her shoulder and kissed the spot he’d bitten into the night before when he was in the throes of passion. The bruise did sting but when he put his mouth on it, the hurt faded away.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he commanded as he pulled himself back up. Befuddled, she stared at him as he pressed her against the table and reached behind her.

Her breathing quickened as he straightened himself back up after retrieving what he was looking for. Curiously, she glanced down and her breath hitched as she glimpsed at the shiny dagger he was holding.

“I said, keep your eyes on me,” he repeated.

Her heart drummed in her chest as she looked back up at him. He gently raised his hand, bringing the sharp edge of the knife to her chin. She stared into his eyes, wildly, wondering what he was up to. _Tonight, there’s only pleasure. No pain._

His eyes twinkled with mirth and lust as he slowly dragged the tip of the blade down her throat. Instinctively, she gasped, fearing the worst. But the pain never came, as he promised. The sensation was cold and tingly against her burning hot flesh. And she found something oddly erotic in the way he descended the dagger down her throat, in between her breasts.

His eyes remained on hers the entire time, even as the blade got caught in the neckline of her gown. She was dressed simply for the night, a pale green gown made of the finest silk. He applied more pressure to the knife, not to pierce her skin, but to slide it through the material of her dress, tearing it down. She bit her lip as arousal filled her at his slow, deliberate movements. He smirked, teasingly leaning in, making her pout for a kiss. Instead, he brushed his lips against her jawline and put the knife back on the table. Did he have a thing for ruining her clothes?

His hands slid between her breasts, easily shrugging the torn material off her body. She stood naked in front of him, while he had shed not a layer of clothing, still fully dressed in his leather tunic and Targaryen breastplate.

She ought to feel self-conscious under his inspecting gaze, but he groaned, “You’re so beautiful—you don’t even feel real.” And she’d never felt more confident.

He grabbed onto the table behind her and tilted it, so all the contents fell away. Daenerys’ small puff of surprise was drowned out by the sound of his swords and knives clattering on the ground. She wondered if people could hear them from the outside. And before she could process it, he was lifting her from the floor, putting her down on the wooden surface of the table.

She didn’t question it, spread her legs open as he stood in front of her. Frustratingly enough, Jon still had no plans to get rid of his clothes. Was he not planning on fucking her?

He kissed her neck and lowered his head to her breasts. Momentarily, Daenerys forgot about her complaints. His lips wrapped perfectly around her left tit, his tongue swirling around her nipple until it grew tight and sensitive in his mouth. He groaned when she grasped at his head, her fingers combing through his dark, curly locks while her other hand gripped the edge of the table to hold her up as he kissed and teased the swollen peak. He moved to the next, repeating the same thing, suckling on her in a way that made her thrust her hips against thin air, the tension in her cunt needing to be relieved. He bit teasingly on her nipple and she gripped his hair harder, surely hurting his scalp, not that he seemed to mind as he chuckled breathlessly against her skin.

When he gently pushed her down so she was laying on the cold, uncomfortable surface of his table, she thought he was finally going to take his clothes off and fuck her. He should hurry up because she was nearing the edge of her patience and would probably start begging soon. Perhaps that was his goal, to have her beg for him.

But he continued kissing down her stomach and casually pulled a chair to sit down on.

She tried to close her legs, embarrassed now that his face was _just_ in front of her soaking opening—he could probably smell and see how aroused she was for him. How wanton. Jon grunted in protest, using his hands to pry her thighs apart once more. “Don’t do this,” he said softly, “you have the prettiest cunt. Let me see.”

She whimpered at his words as he glanced at her glistening slit, her insides clenching and unclenching under his heated gaze. “So beautiful,” he whispered, not touching her, just _looking_.

It was driving her completely insane.

“What are you doing?” she asked, throat closing up at the sight of him between her thighs.

He hummed. “I’m going to make you feel good. Has anyone ever done this to you before?”

She glared at his knowing look. “You know the answer to that,” she whispered.

He smiled boyishly. “I do, I just want to hear you say it.”

If only she’d had more lovers, just so she could wipe that smug look from his gorgeous face. “No,” she replied, shutting her eyes, “only you.”

He really liked hearing her say it. “Good.”

He began by kissing her inner thighs, his beard scraping her skin ever so lightly. She searched for something to grab on but there was nothing so she curled her fists at her sides, jumping a bit as he placed a kiss dangerously close to where she was throbbing and aching.

“You’re so wet,” he commented, using a single finger to drag along her slit, going up and down teasingly, spreading her juices all over her cunt. “You smell so good,” he said, taking in a deep breath. She was blushing.

Did people do this? Was this not weird to him?

Without a single warning, his tongue darted out and he licked a path from the base to the top of her swollen cunt, causing her to gasp loudly. _Fuck_. She’d never felt anything like this before. She made a mental note to tell Missandei that she was right, it did feel like heaven.

He moaned in appreciation, as if this was as pleasurable to him as it was to her, but there was no way that was remotely possible. She felt like she could explode from how good it felt.

He did it again but this time, took his time to lick her thoroughly. He repeated the action several times, using his tongue to probe at her entrance, lapping at her lips. She whined, her hips lifting, wanting more of him. He surged forward, gripping her thighs tighter, opening her wide as he went back to his feast. This time, his whole mouth engulfed her and she simply could not breathe anymore. She gasped unevenly, thrashed about. His nose bumped against the bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs as he ate her out, curling his tongue inside of her channel, suckling at her lips as her juices flowed out of her readily. He drank every drop of it.

There was something so intimate about seeing him so engrossed in the task of pleasuring her, his brows furrowed, eyes closed as he worked on her cunt, that it neared her to an orgasm within seconds. Her thighs clasped around his head, tightly, and she would be afraid she was choking him if not for the way he groaned delightedly, encouragingly stroking his hands along her flesh, flicking at her nub with the tip of his tongue.

“Oh, oh gods, Aegon,” she mewled, toes curling as she ground herself against his face, fucking herself on his tongue. “Feels s—so good.”

“You taste so fucking good, Daenerys. I’m never going to tire of your sweet little cunt,” he breathed out against her before sucking on her clit. “I want you to cum all over my face.”

She cried as she peaked, riding his face, from his nose to his bearded chin, surely leaving all of him soaked in her wetness. She was shameless about it, sobbing as her hips rolled to an eventual stop, her body now limp and tired, still sprawled on the table.

She looked up at the ceiling, trying to find stability in her breathing.

Jon finally unhooked her thighs around his head, pressing a last, teasing kiss to her cunt before getting up.

She watched him through heavy-lidded eyes. His hair was messed up. His lips were red, mouth wet from her. Seeing him so dishevelled because of _her_ filled Daenerys with a weird sort of satisfaction.

He caught her staring and smiled lazily.

She tried to sit up but her knees were so weak they felt like jelly, so it was hard. He came to help her, strong arms wrapping around her waist to hold her. “You’re sleeping here tonight,” he stated. Not a question. “Your dress is ruined and it’s too late for you to go back.”

She wanted to argue that sneaking out the next morning would be harder but she was so tired that she found herself nodding. He carried her to his bed easily, lowering her onto the mattress and after taking off his leather jerkin, he slid into bed with her wearing only a simple white tunic and loose trousers.

She stayed silent for a moment before saying, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“ _That_ ,” she answered, cheeks hot.

He chortled in answer.

If she was not so exhausted, she knew she’d want more right now. The feeling of him inside of her was incomparable…but for the moment, tiredness won. She needed to sleep. Before she forgot, she said, “I’ve written a letter to my mother.”

“I’ll have it sent,” he said. Paused and asked, “Did you mention that we fucked?”

She turned to look at him so quickly he laughed. “I’m sorry,” he said but he clearly was not. He turned on his back with a smile still on his face.

Daenerys licked her lips anxiously and looked away from his side profile. It felt weird to sleep next to him. Fucking was one thing, because when she was busy screaming in pleasure, she did not have to think of this or the deeper, more meaningful implications their twisted relationship had.

Now, she was forced to think about every single detail. In an effort to drive her mind to something else, she asked, “What’s going to happen tomorrow?”

“Well, if Robb Stark is smart and brave enough he’ll know that no one else has to die. Just one of us. But if he isn’t then…it’ll be a battle. People will die. Blood will be shed. Given that it’s for revenge, I believe the outcome will be the same—one of us has to die. I doubt he will stop until he achieves that.”

_Not exactly the best kind of after sex talk,_ she thought. “Oh.”

“You should be happy,” he said suddenly, as an afterthought.

She frowned. “Why would I be happy about a war?”

“Because I could die tomorrow,” he stated, voice strangely blank for someone who spoke of death. “You should pray I do, then you’ll be free, won’t you?”

He was right. If he died, she could pretend this whole thing was a nightmare. And Gendry and Varys would get what they wanted as well, without any of them having had to do bad things to get there. Sansa would get her revenge. They’d elect a new King, someone they chose this time, and everyone would be happy.

If it was so right, then why did her stomach sink at the possibility of his words becoming true?

“Maybe I will pray,” she said.

He didn’t say another word after that.

_But for your downfall or your safety, I don’t know._  
  


* * *

“Did you bring her with you?”

“No. She’s not here.”

“Good.” Varys paused for a moment. “You know what I’m about to tell you.”

Gendry could pretend not to, but he wasn’t in the mood. Only a few more hours until the sun would rise and he would be riding into battle alongside his King. He didn’t need more complications. He straightened his spine, crossed his arms over his chest and told Varys, “You’re doubting Daenerys’ loyalty.”

“Doubting is a word I would’ve used a few days ago. Perhaps when you first told me of her. But not now. Now, I’m almost certain _I_ am right, and not you.” Varys’ face was illuminated by the torch he held and what Gendry saw in his eyes was only apprehension. “My little birds have been telling me worrisome things about her.”

“Please, speak no riddles to me. What did they say?”

“That she might’ve been involved in a gruesome act of killing, along with Aegon.”

“Whatever Daenerys did,” Gendry said, determined to defend her, “she did it for a good reason. I don’t need _little birds_ to tell me about her. She has a good heart.”

“Pretty things are often deceiving.”

Gendry rolled his eyes. “What is it that you called me down here for?”

“I must remind you of what Kinvara said…” he trailed off, allowing Gendry to remember on his own.

Varys always said he did not believe in prophecies but when King Aegon had brought a certain priestess Melisandre to court for matters that were never openly discussed, he, too, had his own meeting with a Red Priestess.

“That someone powerful would help Aegon bring fire and blood to the Seven Kingdoms and maintain it, yes, I know.” Gendry had to laugh at the idea of that person being Dany. Sweet, innocent Dany. “She was not speaking of Daenerys.”

“She said the exact words: they’re two parts of a greater whole. What fits more perfectly than the last two Targaryens together?”

Gendry remained quiet so the Spider resumed, “And who knows what bringing fire and blood means? Together, they could be indestructible.”

This conversation was ridiculous to Gendry. Daenerys was nothing like what Varys thought she was. “I didn’t think you were a man stupid enough to believe in superstitions.”

“I wasn’t,” Varys said and looked away thoughtfully, “but Kinvara told me something no one else could know. And because of that, I can’t allow myself to doubt her words.” His eyes found Gendry’s again and he looked perturbed, to say the least.

“Give her time,” Gendry pleaded, “she’ll see him for who he truly is. And she’ll be the one to kill him when the time comes.” This was his plan from the moment he saw how much Aegon cared for her. She could be his downfall—she _would_ be. Gendry just had to give her the right push to do so.

“What if we give her time, only for her to choose him?”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“That is only your wishful thinking.”

Gendry squinted at him distressingly. “What do you suggest?”

Varys let a few beats pass before he spoke once more. “It would be easier to get rid of her while she’s still weak than when she finds strength.”

Gendry gaped at him. “Are you— _gods_ , we’re not harming Dany. We’re not killing her!”

Varys exhaled a breath of exhaustion. “Do not be swayed by her pretty looks.”

“I am not being swayed by anything, Daenerys will join us, I do not care what some priestess told you.” He shook his head, “just…give me time. When I’m back, I promise you that she’ll be ready to hear our plan. I promise you that she will make the right choice.”

The eunuch pursed his lips. “I hope you’re right about her,” he said, “I really do.”

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me having no self-control and putting out another chapter before 2020? More likely than you think. Thanks to Queen_Lyanna for betaing this, a true life-saviour <3 And thanks to all your wonderful comments on the previous chapter that encouraged me to write this one quicker. Hope you enjoyed this one, if you did, let me know :D
> 
> P.S: Only Robb, Sansa and Bran exist in this. No Rickon/Arya.


	9. Chapter 9

**ix. the dragon vs the wolf**

Robb Stark was either brave or stupid. Or perhaps, a bit of both. 

He agreed to meet in the Whispering Wood, a forest in the Riverlands. That wasn’t surprising but what took Aegon aback was that the Northman agreed to fight him _alone_ in a duel to the death. 

He’d had a letter delivered to where the King had set camp, in a small town near Blackwater Rush. In it, he made it clear that he didn’t want innocent lives to be lost, that this was a personal fight and thus only concerned the two of them.

“I believe it’s a trap,” one of Aegon’s most loyal soldiers—Soren—stated. “I don’t think he is going to be alone. You shouldn’t be either.”

“I’m not a coward,” Jon replied.

“It’s not a matter of cowardice but trust. Do you trust this man to be true to his word?”

Jon flipped the scroll upside down in his hand and ran his thumb over the Stark sigil, the grey direwolf, and shook his head decisively “He is a Stark. If I’m not mistaken, they’re known for their unmovable honour. I’m meeting him alone. If I am not back by nightfall tomorrow, you’ll know something happened.”

“But, Your Grace,” Soren insisted, “what if something really does happen?”

Aegon knew it wasn’t a trap. He had no idea why he was so certain of it, and perhaps Soren was right to have his doubts and to think that he should have a backup plan just in case all went to shit, but Robb’s words were sharp and clear in his head: _this is personal_. It wasn’t a North vs South affair. It wasn’t a fight for independence. It was him wishing to avenge his deceased father, whose death was solely Jon’s fault. No one else’s. “Then,” Jon proclaimed, “he wins.”

* * *

Rays of mellow sunlight filtered through the verdurous canopy, penetrating through the leaves and casting an unearthly green–gold luminescence over the ground. The woods were not dead silent—birds were singing and leaves were rustling whenever the soft breeze caressed them—but the atmosphere held an eery secret. Like a tragedy was awaiting. As the King waited, he glanced around, knowing the serenity currently surrounding him would soon be shattered into a million pieces. The trees looked ancient, timeless as they disappeared into the sky, rough with age, yet their roughness had been worn down by the soft greenness of moss that had slowly made them home.

The sounds of a pair of footsteps gave Jon pause. He waited before turning, not wanting to appear unprepared, not wanting to seem too phased. He faced his opponent slowly, deliberately. And smiled at the sight of Robb Stark. Alone, as he’d promised. “I knew you were as honourable as your father,” he commented, “and perhaps just as foolish.”

Robb Stark did not come here to joke around, much to Jon’s chagrin. The grim grey colour of his armour was a contrast to Aegon’s red and black. And his mood, a contrast to his. 

Robb stopped advancing, leaving plenty of room between him and his cousin. “Do you know what this is?” he asked and unsheathed a sword. 

It was long and shiny, the blade deceptively thin but due to Jon’s broad knowledge of weaponry, he knew this little thing was as deadly as his busty one if used properly. Robb tightened his grip on the metal handle as he waited for the King’s answer.

“A sword?” Jon guessed jokingly. 

“My father gave that to me,” he said through gritted teeth. Poor boy, the fight hadn’t even started, and his eyes were already brimming with tears. “A moon before he left for King’s Landing, he offered this to me and asked me to take care of it while he was gone because it was his most prized possession. ‘Careful,’ he said, ‘I’m not gifting it to you yet. I’ll want it back and you can only have it for yourself after I’m dead.’ He never got to have it back.”

Jon watched, unimpressed, as Robb sniffed, blinking his tears away rapidly. “Oh, I thought we were meant to fight. Did you want to exchange sad stories first? Well, I have a few too.” He smirked. 

“Why did you kill him?” Robb asked. 

“You know the answer to that.”

“He was your family. You betrayed him after accepting his invitation to your home, swearing he’d be safe under your roof. He wanted peace with you, he wanted you to be at Sansa’s wedding. You could’ve chosen to forgive the past.”

“I could have,” Jon acquiesced, “but I did not want to.” He tilted his head to Robb and mockingly declared, “you can choose to forgive me.”

“I can,” Robb said dryly and grabbed onto his sword in a more precise manner, “but I don’t want to.”

“Before I forget, I have something for you,” the King proclaimed and pointed at the ground, where he wrapped Robb’s _gift_ in a few layers of cloth. “You’ll love it.”

His cousin’s jaw twitched. “What is that?” he asked, a slow and skeptical question.

“You’ll have to open it to find out.”

Robb approached it carefully and, with a dubious look on his face, nudged the thing with his foot which caused it to roll over and reveal itself. As Aegon already knew what it was, he was more interested in seeing the Stark boy’s reaction. The latter stumbled back as if hit by lightning and a sob broke past his lips.

Jon smiled. 

“I’ll try to find the rest of him,” he drawled sarcastically, “although I doubt I’ll be successful, I probably had the rest of his body burned. Or chopped up, I can’t remember. But the head’s enough, right?”

His dear cousin charged at him without another warning, a loud growl piercing from the depths of his throat as he aimed for Jon who skilfully managed to dodge the attack barely a second before the shiny blade sliced his ear off. He got his sword out quickly and whistled, “I didn’t know we were already starting.”

Robb recovered from his failed attack fairly quickly and swung for him again. This time, Jon used his sword to stop his attack. Their swords got acquainted pretty quickly and soon, the quietness of the forest was sliced through by the disturbing sounds of metal clashing. Jon’s heeled boots dug into the dirt as Robb changed angles, swinging his sword in an opposite direction. Jon managed to dodge each strike and counter-attack with stronger ones. 

Robb was good. Jon hadn’t had a strong opponent in a while, and the thought thrilled him. Having an adversary up to his standards was refreshing and was going to make his death all the more satisfying. 

The man charged at him with his blade upheld, going to his foreswing and following it with a backswing. Aegon dodged the first and met the second with his sword. The weight of his weapon sent his opponent’s blade back but not far enough to knock it free of his hands. They both staggered, unstable, Jon’s nerves alight.

“You’re good, Stark,” he announced, making sure to maintain eye contact with Robb as he gave him a slow smile. 

Robb was breathing heavily, his hair coming undone in wild, auburn curls falling over his face. 

In this light, they could almost be brothers.

Jon didn’t wait for him to recover fully, this wasn’t a friendly match after all, and used his temporary disadvantage to charge at him full-speed, elbowing him in the ribs. Robb grunted as he fell, and Jon’s lip curled. He raised his arm, positioned his sword and swung. 

Unfortunately, it was not Robb’s head that met the tip of his blade but the ground. Robb had managed to roll over and Jon ground his teeth in annoyance. He _was_ good. 

It continued like this for a while, a swift dance they were both great at performing. Neither relented, neither got a perfect shot. They swung and dodged as their steels kissed repeatedly. 

Soon, Aegon’s goal became to tire him out so as to finally have the upper hand. He slashed at Robb vigorously, quickly but they were attacks that were easily avoided. Their only purpose served to weaken him, exhaust him and by the looks of it, it was working. Robb was being worn down, his breathing loud and heavy, his hits less powerful than before. Jon was not invincible either, but his stamina was evidently better than his cousin’s and he had to use this as an advantage before it was too late.

Clenching his hand around the hilt of his sword, Jon ignored the pain shooting up his arm due to fatigue and aimed for Robb three times. Harder than ever before. The first two were dodged by Robb but the third one was victorious and Aegon’s blade finally reached his opponent’s flesh, slicing at his cheek. Robb yelped at the injury and lost balance, collapsing on the muddy ground when his skin split open, ribbons of blood pouring out.

In the process, he let go of his weapon and Jon was quick to kick the sword away from his reach. Robb’s eyes grew wide as his head turned to the side and he realised that his sword was not close enough for him to grab.

The King looked down at him, watched as blood trickled down to his ear. His eyes met Jon’s, as defiant as ever. 

Jon smiled slowly. He was tired, too. And Robb had managed to lightly scrape his brow with his sword and now the area was throbbing with pain. It was not an easy duel, he had to admit, and the victory was sweeter than the wine he’d gulped down before coming here. “Any last words, Robb?” he asked, placing the pointy end of his sword on top of his throat, both of his hands on the pommel of his sword. One push and it would dive into his skin, slice through his neck and kill him.

Before he inflicted the fatal wound, he allowed his cousin to speak. That was generous of him, wasn’t it?

Robb breathed in and out slowly and gulped hard.

Jon pressed, applying enough pressure to cut his skin. Just enough for blood to start spilling. “Well?” he asked, “I don’t have all day.”

“Grey Wind,” he whispered.

“What’s that?” Jon asked.

His answer came in the form of a low growl. The animalistic sound took the King by surprise. His head slowly turned to the side, breath hitching at the sight of a wolf. A big, grey wolf with his teeth bared, hackles raised, saliva dripping menacingly from his large mouth.

_Fuck._

This was not part of the plan.

“I said no men,” Robb muttered, a last smile gracing his lips, “I never said no animals.”

Aegon gritted his teeth, his calm demeanour slipping. He was a good fighter but his opponent had never been a fucking _wolf._ Refusing to let Robb see him panic, he drove the blade into his throat without another word. He couldn’t deal with the two of them at the same time. 

The wolf suddenly crouched down, a pained whimper coming from his throat. Jon blinked in realisation. “Hurting him hurts you,” he mumbled in amazement, and made sure to twist the sword into Robb’s throat until he began choking on his own blood and eventually died.

The animal was considerably weakened. When Jon removed his sword from Robb’s flesh with a squelching sound, the wolf turned his full attention to him. _Gods,_ he really hoped he wouldn’t die like this. It was pathetic.

His heart thudded against his ribcage, a twisted song. He was afraid. A rare occurrence for him, but now he felt it within every cell of his body. With a howl, the beast was on him, knocking Jon on the ground. Without a warning, his teeth dug into Jon’s forearm, piercing through the sleeves of his undercoat and right into his flesh. The teeth sunk, sunk and sunk until they found his bones.

The pain came so suddenly it almost blinded Jon. The intensity of it was unlike anything he’d ever experienced in his whole life, it froze his body, made his blood run cold and lit up every single nerve in his arm. His pain receptors went haywire. 

The scream he let out was inhuman-like. He was pretty sure people in King’s Landing could hear him. 

Still, the small part of his brain left functioning was quick to react. With his shaky left hand, he quickly rummaged for the dagger on his belt as the animal assaulted his arm. With weak fingers Jon managed to stab the wolf in his neck. He gave a loud whine once more, canines finally letting go of the King’s now bleeding hand. 

The blood oozing out was thick and crimson red. It was horrifying to see his whole arm covered in blood but he could not concentrate on that for the moment. Taking the dagger in hand, he once more aimed for the animal which fell on the ground next to him. His neck was now bleeding. _But not enough_. Aegon grunted in agony as he stabbed the wolf again, slitting along his neck, his cries of pain echoing in the vast space around them. He didn’t stop cutting at Grey Wind until his cries began to die down, dark eyes slipping shut as he laid on the ground, his grey fur now painted red.

Jon fell back as well. He was losing too much blood but he was…so tired. _I’ll just lie here for a few moments,_ he thought before he let himself go, eyes fluttering shut as his entire body throbbed with pain. From where Robb struck him on his eye to where his wolf had mauled his hand, Jon felt like he was on fire. Everything hurt, everything burned and then…everything went numb.

He welcomed the feeling. The darkness was calling out to him, he followed it. When he closed his eyes, he saw the moon or silver hair, he couldn’t tell which.

* * *

When he awoke, he felt as though his eyelids were stuck together. He couldn’t open them without putting a lot of effort. He felt _sick,_ his throat itching and burning, his whole body aching. He couldn’t move; he felt like he had no energy to do so.

“He’s moving. He’s awake,” a voice said. It sounded so far away. But then someone was shaking him, and the voice was now close. “My King,” the voice spoke once more, “are you alright?”

Jon finally cracked an eye open, his vision blurry. He blinked a few times before the boy’s face came into focus. He recognised the young man as a squire. “Water,” he croaked. 

Quickly, a flask was being shoved at his mouth and Jon moaned as the cold, tasteless liquid slid along his dry mouth and into his scratchy throat. It was the best thing he’d felt in days. He drank quickly and eagerly and finally slumped back down. They were in a carriage, he realised, and it was moving. He blinked. “How long was I out for?” he asked.

The boy with dark hair looked at him worriedly. “Almost five days now. We’re nearing King’s Landing.” He paused. “You have to eat, Your Grace. You look…”

Jon raised an eyebrow weakly.

The boy flushed red. “Weak,” he tried.

“I know I look like shit,” Jon groaned, “I feel like it too. Fill me in on what’s happened since you found me.”

“Well, you failed to come back to camp so we knew something was wrong. We tracked you down and found you unconscious, next to Robb Stark’s body and a dead wolf.”

Jon’s lips tilted in the slightest. Robb Stark was truly dead. It still felt good. 

“His men arrived soon. Most of them understood it was a fair fight but others…they were angry. So, they fought us.”

“How many died?” Aegon asked.

“About six of our men. Ten of them, I believe.”

“Not terrible.”

“Then we took you back to camp and tried to wake you. We failed. Even the physicians failed, but said that you were still alive. So, we began travelling back, as we were afraid the North would try to attack again if we didn’t start moving since you were at your weakest. And now we’re here.”

Jon hummed. “You did the right thing,” he declared.

The young lad looked pleased. “We’ll stop by the next village for you to eat.”

The King nodded, too tired to speak. Eventually, he had to, “What’s your name?”

“Colin.”

“Colin, can you take a look at my arm?”

Jon could not _feel_ that limb anymore. Anything below his shoulder felt like it simply did not exist. The excruciating pain from before was gone. Now, it was numb. But he was too tired to move and it felt practically impossible for him to lift that arm to inspect the gravity of his injury. Hopefully, Colin would be able to tell him how bad it was.

The squire twisted his head to look at Jon’s arm. His green eyes grew twice their size, jaw slackening.

Jon knew that was not a good look. “So?”

“It’s…bruised,” he spluttered.

“Bruised. That’s very vague.”

“Injured.”

“Means the same thing. Is it bad?”

He was sweating now. “Somewhat,” he squeaked, “I-I don’t think I’m qualified to determine how bad it looks, My King.”

Jon sighed quietly. He had no energy to argue or to threaten to gut him alive if he wasn’t truthful with him. Instead, he closed his eyes. Before sleep could claim him, he heard the young man vomit.

* * *

His arm was _fucked._ The wolf’s bite marks ran so deep Jon wouldn’t be surprised if he could see his bones once the wound would be cleaned up. By the time they’d reached King’s Landing, he was doing better in terms of consciousness. He could finally stay awake for more than an hour without feeling like he was going to die. But the state of his arm only worsened with time. The sudden stabs of pain were so bad he’d have to bite down on his teeth, so hard he feared they’d shatter. His arm twitched and throbbed, blood trickling from the open wounds. 

He would have it looked over the moment he got back to the castle. 

That was the plan.

But that plan was all but forgotten when they’d reached court.

He did not care much for the celebratory tunes being played as he was welcomed back home. He was still sick and still hurting so even if victory was indeed sweet, the pain he was going through would not allow him to be happy. 

He was glad to see Sam, though. And his best friend’s smile was honest when he greeted the King at the gates. Jon wrapped his arms around his shoulders, his body almost collapsing against his friend’s. Sam chuckled as he hugged him back. “Almost thought we lost you there,” he joked. When he pulled away, Sam cringed. “Gods, Jon, you look like utter shit.”

 _Finally,_ someone was being truthful with him. He smiled and his whole face hurt. “I know. It’s good to see you again, Sam.”

His eyes fell to his arm that was being held by a shawl wrapped around his shoulder. “Oh, no…”

“Wolf bite,” Jon said.

Sam took in a deep breath. “ _Wolf_? How the fuck did you survive this?”

“Luck, I guess. I’ve no bloody clue,” he admitted. 

“Let’s get you checked.” Sam sniffed and cringed. “And bathed. Have you been dumped in wolf shit too?”

Jon snorted. “I passed out for almost a week,” he said, “Wait…Sam. Before I do all of that, I need to see someone. Daenerys.”

He _missed_ her. It was crazy because he’d been gone for about a moon, but it felt like a lifetime ago since he’d seen her pretty face, touched her silver-spun hair and tasted the honey on her tongue. 

Gods, he had no idea how he’d become so needy and possessive for this woman. He’d never felt like this for anyone before. It was a dangerous game he was playing, he was well aware of that, but for the first time in his life, Jon had no idea how to control _this_. She was underneath his skin already and was clawing her way up to his cold, hardened heart and melting away at all of the walls around it with the fire that burned in her eyes. The fire he wanted to expand, to let it burn everything around them until there was just the two of them.

Sam’s playful smile dropped. “Jon, I did not want to tell you like this but…”

Jon’s own smile disappeared. Panic seized his heart. “What?” he growled out.

“Daenerys is…sick.”

“Sick?” he repeated. “What does _sick_ mean, Sam?” he asked slowly, patiently, but inside of him, something was building up fast. He was going to snap at any moment now.

“Just a bit sick,” Sam quickly said, “nothing to worry about. I swear.”

“Sam,” he warned. He did not like this conversation, not one bit.

“You can go see her later. It’s most likely a common cold. That’s what Gilly told me.”

“Take me to her,” he ordered.

“But—your hand—”

“Fuck my hand,” Jon huffed, “I need to see Daenerys.”

He was not denied of his wishes any longer, and thank gods for that, or else he would’ve had Sam flying across the courtyard. Jon’s mind whirled with possibilities as they approached Daenerys’ bedchambers. How did she fall sick? Colds were not uncommon, yes, but why only when he was gone? Was it purely coincidental or was this something else entirely?

He pushed her doors open and his eyes caught Daenerys’ friend, Missandei’s. The dark woman’s jaw went slack in shock as she scrambled to her feet but Jon lifted a hand to stop her from panicking. “What happened to her?” he asked as he strode forward, eyes fixed on the body on the bed. 

“I think she caught the flu, Your Grace,” Missandei answered, “she’s been resting for a while now.”

Daenerys was _pale._ She was already a very pale woman but her fair, creamy skin now looked as white as snow. It was not normal. Her nose was red, her mouth dry and almost blue in colour. She looked so small and fragile, he wanted nothing more but to wrap her in his arms and kiss her all over to wake her up. His heart clenched at the sight. “Have you called a maester in here?”

“No, My King, we did not think it was necessary.”

“Look at her,” Jon snapped, “how can you think it’s not necessary?”

Sam was behind him. “Jon, perhaps you’re overreacting. She’s going to be fine.”

“I’m not taking any chances,” Jon said, his tone closing any door for discussion. “Call a maester in here and have her inspected.” When no one moved, he roared, “right now!” 

Missandei jumped and flew right past him. 

As he gazed down at Daenerys’ body, her chest moving in sync with gentle breaths, the only sign of life he could see, he realised that he could not even pray for her. If there were any gods, surely, they would not be listening to _him._

But it did not stop him from hoping everything was fine. He had to cling on to that hope, it was all he had. 

That…and fear.

* * *

The first physician said it was nothing serious. But Jon wanted to be on the safe side, so he had another check her. The second one brought troubling news. “It’s an intestinal infection. Which would not be grave were it not spreading so fast,” the white-bearded man said after examining Daenerys’ state. 

“What does that mean?” Aegon asked. 

“It’s starting to affect many organs.”

Jon refused to succumb to panic yet and turned to the first healer. “You said she was alright.”

He was younger than the second, hence more inexperienced. But that was no excuse to Jon. What if he had only consulted him? He would’ve made Jon think Daenerys was fine, which she obviously was not. 

“I-I do not think her situation is all that bad,” he stammered like an idiot.

Jon glanced down at Daenerys, his insides tightening in a knot at her small, delicate, pale face. A sense of protectiveness he’d never felt before rose inside of him. “What can be done to cure her?” he asked, swallowing hard when he felt like his voice would crack. He would not show how much this affected him. That was too big of a sign of weakness. 

“I’m not _certain,_ My King but—”

Jon lifted a hand. “If you’re not certain,” he drawled, “then why are you here?”

The young man gulped. “I have not yet completed my training yet so I fear that is why my diagnosis is not perfect.”

Jon sighed in aggravation. “Once more, why are you here, then?”

He bowed his head.

“And you?” he turned to the older, seemingly wiser healer. 

“I will see what I can do for her—”

“You will _see_ ?” Jon seethed, laughing sarcastically, “There’s no _seeing_ here. How certain are you that you can cure her?”

Numerous beats passed. “I’m not fully confident I can, my king.”

Worry mixed with anger in his chest, and it was a dangerous combination. He turned to Sam Tarly, who stood in a corner of the room, observing them silently. “Sam, I want the _best_ maesters brought to this room right now.” He spared the two pathetic fools a last look, “And all the ones who fail to tell me what is wrong with her will die.”

“Jon.” It was Sam’s _you-should-probably-reconsider-this_ tone but Jon did not care. Not when it came to Daenerys, who was still lying on that bed, looking less and less well as the seconds ticked away. Fright held his heart captive. He had a sick feeling that he was going to lose her soon. 

“That was an order,” Jon said.

Sam stared at him, disappointment clear in his eyes, before he realised there was no talking him out of this. With a bow, he obeyed what his King demanded. “Everyone, out,” Jon requested, “only Sam and the maesters are staying.”

Footsteps dispersed and the door slammed shut to a now quiet room. Jon returned to the bed, staring down at Daenerys’ pallid face. A shaky finger reached out to her, touching her skin ever so softly. _Gods, she’s so cold._ Daenerys usually burned under his fingertips, her skin flushed red wherever he would touch her…and now she felt _lifeless_.

The pain in his heart intensified. It was something new to him, to feel something so vehemently for someone. Daenerys couldn’t die—what about the prophecy? The visions? But he couldn’t lie to himself and claim these were the only reasons. She couldn’t die because he _cared_ for her. It was not wise, but he did. She’d become important to him, he couldn’t get her out of his head; her eyes, her hair, her smile, her touch, her taste _…_ her fire that matched his own. She completed him. She couldn’t die because it was not a matter of want any longer, but one of need. He _needed_ her.

Daenerys couldn’t die, because if she did, he would kill everyone for it.

* * *

Patient was the last word that could be used to describe Jon. As the sun went down, and Daenerys still hadn’t awoken, it became clear to him that she was _truly_ unwell and there was nothing he could do about it. 

“ _Bloody_ useless.” Sam Tarly flinched as an object flew right past his head, crashing against the wall behind him. The loud, clattering sound did naught to soothe his ire. Jon looked around the room, searching for more things to throw. To break. He wanted to turn this castle upside down, destroy everything—and everyone—in his path to get her to wake. “They’re all fucking useless.” 

How was it that not a single healer was able to wake her up yet? What in the seven burning hells were they learning at the citadel to come back _this_ obtuse? Three had already come thus far, promising that their medicines would work, and when nothing happened, they broke down in tears apologising, only managing to get a few sentences out before Jon ordered to have them killed. 

“Jon, you do realise that soon there will be no physicians left in this city because you’ve decided to kill them all?” Sam asked, sighing.

“It’s what they deserve,” he muttered. Looked down at his hand. He still hadn’t had his wounds checked, and the effects of not taking care of them were showing now. The wolf bite had exacerbated. The area was now so swollen it turned purple. Moving his arm hurt like _hell_ but still, he found too much satisfaction in breaking things to care.

“Perhaps you should give them time to find a cure.”

“I need her to be alright. I don’t _have_ time.”

“You’re being impossible,” Sam stated. “And you’re not helping her at all.”

Jon clenched his jaw, not answering him. 

A knock came at the door. His guard opened it. “Your Grace, Maester Daeron,” he introduced before a middle-aged, fat man entered the bedchambers. 

Jon’s eyes narrowed at him already.

“My King,” the man bowed and Jon could see his hands were shaking. _Good._

He nodded absent-mindedly, remaining close to the hearth as the healer went to Daenerys’ bed. Aegon had no interest in making himself more miserable by looking at her again, so he stared into the fire, absorbing its warmth as Daeron conducted a check-up.

He was the first and only one to confirm the King’s worst doubts. With a gasp, he left the bed and hurried to where the monarch stood. “My King,” he said, his brown eyes full of dread, “The sickness doesn’t come from a virus—if I’m not wrong, I believe she has been poisoned.”

* * *

“How certain are you that this will work?”

“I have been studying different poisons and their cures. I do trust that I have the right solution. The poison is going to spread and attack her immune system, which will weaken her. It’s already late, so if we don’t act now I’m afraid the toxin will already have reached her vital organs by nightfall.” He paused to gulp under the King’s hardened gaze, “After that…it’ll be practically impossible to save her.”

“Enough,” Aegon ground out. Hearing these words sent a tremor down his spine. “You’re sure she’s been poisoned?”

“I would bet my life on it.”

“Not would. You _are_ betting your life on it. If you’re wrong, I’m going to slit your throat.”

The man swallowed again, and his face began sweating profusely. “Y-yes, Your Grace.”

“What will you do to her?”

“An injection. But I have to warn you, it might take a few days for it to work and get rid of the toxins. In the meanwhile, she will remain unconscious.”

Aegon sighed.

“It will work, though.”

“It better,” he told him sternly, “or else, you know your fate. You’re not leaving the castle until she’s up and alright.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Jon stayed with him through the process. Daeron took a seat on a stool next to her bed with his medical equipment placed on a desk. The needle was bigger than what Jon was used to, and he feared that it would hurt Daenerys. But he had to do what it took to make sure she’d survive. As the man’s chubby fingers approached her body with a knife in hand, Jon abruptly asked, “What are you doing?”

The man’s face was red. “I need to c-cut her dress to…get to her skin.”

Jon exhaled through his nose. He was annoyed by this procedure but he gave a curt nod. Maester Daeron only tore the fabric at the side of her stomach, exposing a small patch of her fair, pale skin. The King kept his eyes on the healer as he filled a syringe with a greenish substance, explaining that this would dissolve the poison in her body but how the damage done would need time to recover, and then he pressed the needle against Daenerys’ skin. Instinctively, Jon reached out for her hand. He wasn’t sure if she could _feel_ pain given that she was unconscious but if she did, then he wanted to reassure her. Perhaps his touch wasn’t the most reassuring one but that was all he could offer her at the moment. Grazing his thumb over her cold knuckles, he waited for the maester to be done before gently letting go of her hand. 

Daeron was quick to pack his things after that, eager to run away. But before he could step out, Jon whirled on his feet, striding to him and using his good hand to pin him against the door. The man cowered away, already trembling with fear. He squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m not going to hit you,” the King drawled, pressing him harder against the wooden surface. “But if she doesn’t wake in the next days, I’m going to chop you into little pieces and feed your body to the hounds. Is that understood?”

He nodded so fast he might’ve broken his neck. “Yes, My King!”

Jon let go of him. “Leave,” he ordered. 

Sam joined him, looking back at the maester as he ran down the corridor in terror. His friend sighed. “Is she alright?”

“He said it would take a few days,” Jon answered, flexing his injured hand. 

“Jon, if you don’t have someone look at your injuries, you’ll be the one dead in a few days.”

“I know,” he gruffly said, “I will go now.” Now that he had…some sort of reassurance that Daenerys would be fine. 

“So, she was poisoned.”

He looked up at his friend sharply. “No one can know. Not a single person. Not even her, when she wakes.”

“Why not?”

“Think about it, why would someone want Daenerys dead?” Jon asked, the idea of it absurd to him. Grabbing the flask of wine he’d been drinking from earlier, he took two big swigs to calm his raging nerves.

“I’m wondering the same thing. She’s sweet and kind, wanting her dead makes no sense.”

“ _People will try to tear you two apart,_ ” Melisandre had told him before she’d left King’s Landing, “ _people who realise how powerful you two will be. You must be careful, for the night is dark and full of terrors._ ”

“It does make sense,” he murmured, swirling the red liquid before taking another sip. It was sweet on his tongue and hot down his throat. “We must proceed carefully. _Something_ is brewing. We have to find out who was behind this.”

And then, he would show them what true Targaryen madness meant. 

* * *

The maester told him that he should avoid any strenuous activities for the next moon or so, because his arm was thoroughly messed up and any kind of pressure on it could cause permanent damage—he could potentially lose a limb.

But how could he follow these orders when all he wanted to do ever since he came back was hit something? He wanted to pick up his sword and fight, he needed bloody combats to take his mind off Daenerys laying motionless on that bed, he wanted to find the one who did this to her and… _gods,_ the things he would do to that person. Hurt them to a point of no return, make them beg for death and not give it to them. Perhaps he would prolong the torture for a year or two. Whips, knives, fire…there were so many things that he had planned for the culprits. 

It was hard to stay _calm._ It was hard to go to council meetings and pretend he cared about what was being said. 

His days went by as such; performing his kingly duties as fast as he could so he could slip back into her bedchambers and sit next to her, gazing at her face until the moon would grace them with its presence through her window. 

He’d been staring at her face for so long he could remember every single detail. The curl of her lashes, her perky nose, her plump lips, the thickness of her brows… He never bothered speaking to her, because she wouldn’t hear him anyway, but sometimes he would touch her. 

Run his thumb across her cheekbone. Her skin would be glacial to the touch and his stomach would sink and twist on itself at the thought of never feeling her flesh burning under his fingertips once more.

Only during these moments was he truly calm. Secluded with her, his heart thudding at the possibility of her lashes fluttering and her purple eyes meeting his. When he was out of this room, though, he saw red. He wanted to hurt _everyone_. His thoughts were dark and cruel, and he didn’t know how long he would be able to keep them tamed.

Before Daenerys, though, there was something therapeutic about hurting the ones he felt deserved it and the people who’d wronged him. But if she died, he was afraid that he could kill every single person in this city and it would still not fill the hole she would leave behind.

One night, Sam came to him. Everyone else knew better than to disturb him — and he wouldn’t _let_ anybody near this room anymore, he didn’t trust people around Daenerys other than himself — so when the door creaked open, he knew it was his best friend.

“I have brought you some food, knowing you will not join me for dinner tonight,” he said and placedes the tray of food on the desk next to the fireplace, “as you haven’t for the past three nights.”

 _Three nights._ It had been _three_ days since Daenerys hadn’t awoken. Was it wise to still be hoping? “Thank you, Sam,” he said quietly.

“Get some sleep, Jon.”

“A little bit longer,” he insisted, even if his back ached and his muscles were begging for rest.

“You still have not recuperated from your injuries. It’s unwise to wear yourself out. If she wakes, you’ll be informed.”

“I know.”

Sam sighed sadly. “You’re worried about her, I understand.”

“I need her to be alright,” the King blurted, eyes fixed on her sickeningly pale face, “I haven’t felt well for three days now, it’s eating me alive. I can think of little else but her.” He wouldn’t admit this to anyone else but Sam wasn’t just anyone and it felt _good_ to express how worried he was. He leaned forward to push back a ringlet of silver hair from her face. “I need her to wake up,” he added softly, his voice pained. 

Sam placed a hand on his shoulder. “You care for her a lot, don’t you?”

Jon swallowed.

“It’s what I felt when Gilly gave birth to Little Sam. When she lost too much blood and the midwives said they weren’t sure she would make it. I felt like a part of me was missing and would never return if she never opened her eyes.”

 _Exactly,_ Aegon wished to say but refrained from doing so.

“There’s this hole in your chest and everything hurts.” Sam acknowledged. “That’s the downside of being in love with someone.”

Jon pulled his hand away from her face. “I don’t love her,” he said, determinedly, “I just…care for her. I brought her here. She is my responsibility. She is my family, after all.”

“Jon, you stay here for hours just staring at her face. If that’s not love…”

“It isn’t.” It could not be. Love is weakness. And he was _not_ weak. Not for Daenerys, not for anyone. “I don’t love her,” he repeated and perhaps, if he made the words into a mantra and kept reciting it, he would convince himself fully.

He had never _loved_ before. He wasn’t sure he knew how to. He was not built for love.

Sam did not argue with him, though he looked unconvinced. “Go eat and get some sleep,” he repeated before he left.

Jon nodded and looked at Daenerys one last time before moving to stand. 

It was not love, but the fear of losing her forever broke him. For the first time in a very long while, he felt his heart—and it was breaking.

* * *

The next day, he set out to find some answers. 

He interrogated the person he knew Daenerys was the closest to.

The servant girl, Missandei. 

She looked _petrified_ when he called her into his quarters. She had her fingers intertwined, head bowed as she was escorted in. Aegon nodded at the guards and turned his attention to the dark-haired woman. 

“You were the last person to have been with Daenerys when she was fine,” he stated, “tell me everything.”

“I usually have lunch with her in her rooms. So, I got us food and went to her. She seemed perfectly fine, we were talking and laughing like we always do. Everything was fine. Before I left, she asked for a glass of water because she was feeling a bit ‘funny’ as she described it. It went downhill from there, she said she was feeling tired and ill. So, I asked her to rest. She was coughing and sneezing a lot, so I figured it was only a flu.” Now, she frowned. “But she hasn’t awoken in days. _Is_ it only the flu?” She looked up at him, wide-eyed.

He stared at her, wanting to see if she was lying. She seemed honest enough but, still, he didn’t trust her. He could not trust anybody with Daenerys’ life. “It’s a disease,” he offered, “but she should be fine, according to the healers.”

“So, why am I here?” she asked in a little voice.

“I only wished to find out what the source of that _virus_ might be,” he lied, “to know how to prevent more people from catching it.”

“Oh.” She relaxed a bit. “I’m sorry, My King, I don’t know how else I can be of aid. Perhaps it was the food or the weather,” Missandei mumbled uncertainly.

 _It_ definitely _is the food._

“That will be all, you may leave,” he said, turning his back to her. 

His searches were now narrowed down. He didn’t have to suspect everyone, he just had to find all the people who worked in the kitchens. One of them would be aware of the poison. One of them was _asked_ to poison her food. Once he found that person, it would be easy to trace his way to the schemer. 

He pocketed his favourite dagger and glanced down at his bruised arm. Too bad, he wouldn’t be following the maester’s orders for too long. He had some torturing to do and some answers to obtain. 

However, before he could proceed to the kitchens, his door burst open. He was surprised by the intrusion, wondering who in their right mind would _dare_ enter his quarters unauthorised. But as he turned, he was greeted by a young boy gasping for air, as if he’d just run a mile. “Your Grace,” he straightened himself and declared, “She’s awake—Lady Daenerys is awake.”

He’d asked them to inform him the moment she awoke, no matter where he was or what he was doing. His anger subsided as he pushed past the boy, his feet swiftly carrying him to her rooms. 

He stopped at the entrance, appalled by the sight in front of him. 

“What are you doing here?” he sneered.

He’d made it clear that no one should enter this room without his authorisation. And _he_ was the last person he wished to see here. Gendry was standing next to her bed, looking down at her. Daenerys had a small smile on her face before she noticed Aegon, and, _fuck,_ it pissed him off that he’d spent night and day sitting next to her, waiting for her to open her eyes and now that she eventually did, _Gendry_ was the first person she saw and not _him_. He was jealous of her smiling at him, as dumb as that was. He wanted to split the man’s skull open. 

But then his eyes focused on Daenerys and his dark, frenzied impulses melted away. The relief of seeing her violet eyes, although now dimmed and tired-looking, was overwhelming. If he believed in gods, he would be on his knees offering them his sincerest gratitude. His throat clogged with emotions. He wanted to take her in his arms, kiss her and hold her and feel her _alive_ again. 

“I apologise, Your Grace. She woke up in shock and was yelling for someone so I came because you were not around,” Gendry explained in a tight voice, eyes skipping his. 

He would not have calmed down were it not for Daenerys who was staring at him, her expression unreadable. He didn’t care about anything else other than her for the moment so he curtly nodded in Gendry’s direction. “You can leave now,” he stated, eyes never leaving Daenerys’. 

When they were alone, the tension in the air dissipated. _She is fine. She is alive._ Jon exhaled the breath he’d kept in from the moment he’d seen her on this bed, unconscious. Her eyes followed him carefully as he approached her. She’d gotten thinner, her cheeks hollowed from the lack of food, her eyes lost their spark. It made him furious, reminded him that he still had to find the one who did this to her and make them regret it with every fibre of their being.

He fisted his hands against the impulse of embracing her. 

“Good morning,” she said, her voice small.

He chuckled weakly. “It’s not morning,” he said.

“I’ve lost all sense of time,” she told him as he pulled a chair to sit on—the chair he’d been sat in for days on end now, waiting for her to wake up. “How long have I…”

“Four days,” he replied instantly. Four days and eight hours. 

“Oh,” she breathed out, a bit shakily. She sounded so weak. 

He swallowed, unable to tear his gaze from her face. He had to keep looking at her, remind himself that she was alive, she was well. That was all that mattered. For now. “What happened to me?” she asked, “I remember taking a nap after feeling unwell and…I’ve woken up _now_?”

He recited the lie he’d prepared to tell her, “You were sick. A rare disease, actually, some virus…” He shrugged to make it appear like it was no big deal. 

Daenerys remained curious. “Gods, what kind of sickness leaves you unconscious for days?” she mumbled, rubbing her fingers on her forehead.

“Does your head hurt?” he asked. And to her question, he said, “All that matters is you’re fine now.”

“Just a bit,” she said. Her eyes roamed over his face before they widened. “You’re back from….”

“Yes.”

She licked her lips. “Robb Stark?”

“Dead,” he replied. 

He gauged her expression, wanting to know how she felt about his victory. Did she want him to die instead? But her face gave nothing away so her thoughts remained out of reach. She gave a nod, wincing as she sat up. “I can’t feel my bones,” she muttered.

“You’re weak. You need to eat.” But he wasn’t ready to trust the cooks before he found the people behind this so he ordered Sam’s wife, Gilly, to make something for Daenerys. 

Gilly brought vegetable soup for her, claiming it would be easier to digest this than something solid. 

Daenerys made a face when Jon approached her. 

“You have to eat,” he declared before she could open her mouth to protest.

“Maybe later.”

“No, Daenerys. _Now._ ”

“I’m just going to throw up eating this,” she complained.

“I don’t care,” he told her and took his seat again, scooting closer to her bed. “Eat.”

She was being difficult. She clamped her mouth shut and stared at him.

He sighed. _Fine, we’ll do it the hard way._ He scooped a spoonful of the hot soup and brought it to her lips. “Open,” he ordered. 

She looked at him and snorted.

He raised a brow.

“It’s just funny seeing you like this,” she said, biting her lip to repress a smile. 

He had no time to think about how cute she was, so he didn’t. “Very funny,” he drawled, “now open your mouth.”

When she gasped, he retracted his hand. “What?” he asked.

“Your arm,” she shrieked.

“Oh.”

“What happened?”

“A wolf bit me,” he admitted, finding her horrified expression amusing.

“Doesn’t it hurt?” she breathed out. Then shook her head to herself, “That was a dumb question.”

He chuckled. “Yes, it hurts. So, it would make things a whole lot easier if you could open your mouth for me and eat.”

With a sigh, she finally parted her lips and accepted the food. She grimaced. He waited for her to swallow before feeding her again. And again and again… If someone walked in on the King spoon-feeding someone, it would be embarrassing for all parties involved. But he couldn’t bring himself to care, not when it was with Daenerys. 

She finished three-quarter of the soup before telling him that one more sip would make her throw up. He agreed, partly because he couldn’t resist the look she gave him, pouting like a baby. 

It was pathetic that he’d grown so soft around this woman. 

“Get some rest,” he told her.

Daenerys groaned. “I’ve rested for days. I need to get out of this room before I go mad.”

He cracked a smile. “Fine, go out. But please, make sure the guards are with you at all times.”

She nodded and he was glad she didn’t question why.

“I have to take care of something so I need to go,” Jon said. 

“Wait,” she blurted, causing him to stop in his tracks and face her again. “Will you come back tonight?”

He took a beat, shifting on his feet. “Do you want me to?” he asked slowly. 

She looked down at her intertwined hands on her lap before quietly saying, “Yes.”

Warmth unfurled in his chest. “Then I’ll be back,” he swore.

* * *

“Please! Mercy! I-I have no idea what you are speaking of.”

The cook’s sobs grew louder the harder Aegon pressed his elbow into the skin of his throat, pinning him against the wall as he wailed.

The servants and helpers watched, shaking like leaves, as the King tortured the head cook, a man with a dark moustache who looked stronger than he really was. Underneath Aegon’s hold, he was pathetic, not fighting back, only struggling and weeping. “I’ll ask again,” he warned darkly, “and I don’t like repeating myself…who asked you to poison her food?”

“I did nothing,” he gasped, “I promise.”

Jon narrowed his eyes at him. He had no powers to determine someone’s innocence, if he did, things would be a lot simpler. But he did have a number of ways to torture him until the truth came out, so he was in no hurry. 

He glanced about, eyes flitting from knives to plates to…. His lip twitched. This should be interesting. When he let go of the cook, the latter let out a big breath of relief but Aegon was far from done with him. He grabbed the fork from the utensils splayed out on the table in front of him and turned back to his victim whose eyes widened. “No,” he whispered.

Jon smiled. “I’ve never used a fork to kill someone but perhaps it _is_ possible,” he reflected.

“No, no, no. Please.”

He turned to face the others in the room, glancing at each frightened face. “Either he is lying or one of you is. One of you was asked to poison Daenerys Targaryen’s meal. One of you knows the truth of what happened and if I do not get it…I’m going to kill every single person in this room, innocent or not.” He went back to Gary, the cook whose lip was quivering with fear. “Let me start with him. Shall I gauge his eyes out? Force you all to eat them? Or will someone tell me the truth, and let me spare all of you?” He shrugged. “Either’s fine with me, really.” He grabbed Gary by the lapels of his coat and wrapped his arm around his neck, his back pressed against Jon’s front as he cried out his innocence. “Which one is it?” he asked, holding the fork like a knife, bringing the pointy ends to the man’s right eye.

“ _Stop_.”

Jon stopped, looked up at the person who cracked and stepped forward. “I know the truth.”

* * *

When he came back to her that night, she was seated in front of the mirror with a hairbrush in her hand. She kept mindlessly brushing as he knocked and entered. His eyes met hers through the looking glass and she finally stopped, her hair now tumbling down to her back in soft, silver waves. She looked a lot better than earlier, more lively, and that knowledge chipped away at the thorns of fear that had wrapped around his heart.

“How are you feeling?” he asked to be sure.

“Less nauseous.” She replied. “I have something for you.”

He blinked, startled. “For…me?”

“My mother used to make this for me whenever I got hurt,” she told him and turned back around to the dish on the desk. “You’d be surprised how many injuries I endured growing up. I used to have a cat who’d scratch me any opportunity he got and this always helped.” She came to him and Jon glanced down at the brownish paste that filled the bowl in her hand.

“Daenerys,” he jested, “I doubt a cat scratch is the same as a wolf’s bite.”

He only meant it as a joke but her cheeks went pink in embarrassment as she shook her head, already retracting her arm. “You’re right, sorry…it was just—” 

“You can still try,” he blurted, because he could not stand to see her dejected. And it wasn’t as if his condition could worsen from her ‘medicine’. Something about Daenerys thinking of his injuries while _she’d_ just awoken from a near-death experience made him want to scoop her up in his arms, kiss her until neither of them could breathe and offer her the whole world. “Perhaps it does work.”

Her face brightened once more. “Perhaps,” she affirmed. “It used to help a lot with the pain.”

She handed him the ointment.

He stared at it and shook his head. “You should put it on me,” he suggested slyly.

He just wanted her to touch him. Be near him.

She looked at him knowingly.

“Sit down,” she ordered.

He did as commanded.

Daenerys stood right in front of him, close enough for her knees to be touching his. “I’ll apply some over the bruise on your eye first,” she said quietly and he nodded.

Her fingertips were soft against his skin. It burned and ached wherever she touched but he bit on his tongue, refusing to make a sound, afraid she was going to stop touching him. Instead, he focused on her face. On the lovely curves of her cheeks, the way her eyelashes fluttered, the slight crease in the skin between her brows. When she caught him staring, her cheeks flushed prettily. He wanted to kiss them.

“Now your hand,” she ordered.

He lifted his arm as if in a daze and watched as her frown got deeper. “It’s really bad,” she noticed.

“I had it checked too late, the area was already badly infected by then.”

“Why the delay?”

“Because I had to take care of you,” he murmured the truth.

Daenerys’ gaze found his, many emotions flickering in her stormy eyes. She swallowed hard and a sweet, thick tension formed between them. “This is going to hurt,” she said.

“I know,” he answered.

Her hand was trembling when she scooped the creamy substance and smeared it over the bite. The pain was _intolerable._ Even as he clenched his jaw to stop himself from asking her to take her hand off, a groan escaped his throat. “I’m sorry,” she said softly.

“It’s fine,” he gritted out.

Daenerys trapped her bottom lip between her sharp teeth as she concentrated on the task of applying the healing balm to his wounds. She cleaned up the dried blood wherever she could and put on the sticky substance instead. The pain was so bad he felt like he would pass out but he tried hard to think about other things, _good_ things.

Like the fact that she was alive and well and touching him. The way her fingers brushed ever so gently against his marred flesh. The way she smelled of roses and lavender and vanilla bath oils. The way she chewed on her lower lip nervously, the way a silver lock of hair fell down over her eye and she blew on it to keep it away until he lifted his hand and tucked it behind her ear. She smiled bashfully. She was so beautiful. 

And she was looking at him with all the _care_ in the world reflected in her eyes. Care. Had anyone ever cared for him before? Perhaps his mother did, but he was never alive to experience motherly love. He didn’t grow up in a family. He was an orphan for the majority of his life, not knowing who his parents were, never understanding why they abandoned him. At best, Sam cared for him as a friend but now, he had his own family, his wife and son. 

Jon had no one. And he was fine with it. The less people he cared about, the more invincible he felt.

Until…Daenerys. Did she care for him? Was she battling with these strong emotions too, like he was for her? Did she feel it, too, the incompleteness he felt when he wasn’t with her? 

He knew she wanted him. He knew she desired him—his body. It should be enough, right? 

It shouldn’t matter to him if she hated him.

Right?

When she was done wrapping a bandage around the bruise, her fingers lingered on it thoughtfully. He looked at her face, wondering what was going on in her head. Her amethyst eyes found his as she finally offered a piece of her mind, “I felt it, you know.”

She whispered the words to him, and he feared he might have misheard her. “Felt what?”

Her fingers stilled, the heat of her skin seeping into his. “When you were injured,” she elaborated, “I felt it. I don’t know how to explain it. I was doing fine one moment and the next, pain shot through my whole arm. I had to sit down and take deep breaths. I didn’t understand what it was but…now I do. It was you.”

He stared at her, his breathing quickening. Hers, too. The air between them crackled with electricity. _She felt him_. Felt his pain. Like he was a part of her.

As she was a part of him.

He leaned forward, needing to kiss her again and express all that he couldn’t with words with his touch, when he saw smoke coming from behind the tapestry. “Is something burning?” he asked, concerned.

She looked behind her and shook her head. “It’s my bath.”

Now, his head was filled with images of Daenerys naked in a bath. He almost groaned at the thought. “You were…about to have a bath?” he asked slowly. 

She took a step back from him. “Yes.”

He smirked. “Then do not let me stop you.”

“You’re leaving?” she inquired, and there was something pleasing about how disappointed she sounded. 

“No,” he replied simply, grabbing her hand and leading her to the bathtub on the other side of the room. “I’m going to watch you.”

She widened her eyes before laughing anxiously. “I’m—no _._ I’m not going to have a bath in front of you.”

“You’re right,” he murmured, “I should help you with it.”

She blushed at his words. “No,” she repeated shyly. 

He closed the distance between them, snaking an arm around her waist to pull their bodies together so he could kiss her. She sighed into his mouth, like she was waiting for this, and melted right into his arms. It felt good to hold her after so long and taste her sweet mouth again, especially after the countless days he’d spent thinking he’d lost her. This kiss was better than any they’d ever shared before, there was an edge of desperation to it, two pieces of a puzzle connecting after so long. Her tongue brushed against his, her hands tangling into his hair as she kissed him back, standing on her tiptoes to push herself deeper against his chest. 

“Have you missed me?” he asked against her lips, brushing a piece of hair away from her face and kissing along her jaw, “Have you missed me touching you? Kissing you?”

Daenerys nodded dazedly, her eyes shut, lips parted as he kissed down her neck. “Did you pleasure yourself, thinking of me, while I was gone?” he whispered into her ear. 

She moaned. “ _Yes_.” Her reply was breathless.

His cock sprung to life. “Good,” he said, running his hands up and down her back, “So if you want me to give you what you want, you’ll get into this bath for me.”

She whined in protest but to prove his point, he let her go, even if his hands itched to mark every bit of her skin and make up for all the time he spent _not_ touching her. She stood there, her mouth bruised from his kisses and her hair in disarray, looking at him pleadingly. He shrugged.

Finally, she exhaled through her nose in irritation and her fingers began working at the belt on her dress. She untied it, which loosened the material around her frame, making it easy to step out of. His eyes slid greedily over her body, the expanse of creamy white skin, her dusky pink nipples, and lower still to her bare cunt. 

He was already throbbing for her, needing to be inside of her. But he also wanted to have her ready and wet for him. Jon held onto her hand to help her into the bathtub and she lowered herself completely into it, the water reaching just above her breasts. Her lust-filled eyes met his. 

He gave her a small smile, sitting on the lip of the tub before reaching for the sponge and the bathing oils she always smelled of. Squirting some of it onto the washing sponge, he began by rubbing it along her collarbones and neck. Daenerys sighed in contentment, leaning her head on the edge of the tub. 

The water was _burning_ hot, but to her it seemed like it was lukewarm at best. It fascinated him—she fascinated him. 

He was torn between not wanting to burn his already fucked up hand and needing to touch her, so he switched hands and continued rubbing the sponge all over her. Down her arms, her stomach. He went back up to her chest, watching her face as he washed each mound, stroking around her nipples in teasing circles. A small moan escaped her. His hand drifted lower still, along her legs, back up to her thighs. She opened her legs for him as he reached between her thighs, gently scrubbing her slit. Her hips began gyrating, her cunt grinding against the sponge. 

He chuckled lowly. “Do you do this every time you take a bath or?” he teased, putting the sponge aside and dipping his hand into the water once more. This time, his middle finger grazed her opening. He could feel a slickness that definitely was not the water as he ran the tip of his finger up and down her slit, only barely touching her small nub. 

Her hand shot out to grasp at his wrist that was holding onto the edge of the bathtub. She bit her lip in concentration, trying to get his finger inside of her, her eyes still screwed shut. It would be so easy to slip his digit inside of her. The heat made her skin pink. It made her look even more delicious. 

“Enough teasing,” she begged, “I need you.”

He took his hand out, agreeing with her. As he stood and shed his layers, Daenerys got out of the bathtub, water gliding down her flushed, naked body. There had never been a more beautiful sight. 

She yelped in surprise when he wrapped his arms under her thighs to carry her to bed. He would’ve preferred his room, a bigger bed to sprawl her on and properly fuck her but this would have to do for now.

Her body was hot, plush and pliant underneath his. He kissed her mouth greedily – simply because he loved kissing her – and nudged her thighs apart with his knees. When he tried to hold himself up using his hand, though, he hissed at the sharp jolt of pain that coursed up his arm. _Fuck Robb Stark and his stupid fucking wolf._

She snapped out of her desire-induced trance, her eyebrows furrowing in worry as she looked up at his wincing face. “Are you alright?” she asked. 

He collapsed on the bed next to her, sighing. “I think the wound reopened,” he muttered. He lifted his arm and saw that the white cloth she wrapped around his wrist had a crimson red spot on it. “It’s bleeding again,” he said. 

She sat up on the bed, her lovely round breasts bouncing. “Do you want me to clean it up for you?”

“I want to fuck you,” he groaned. His cock was painfully hard and she looked good enough to _devour_.

She raised both eyebrows at him. “You’re clearly in no state to do so.”

He was not going to let his hand stop him from fucking her. He grasped her wrists and pulled her on top of him. Daenerys straddled his thighs, a curious glint in her eyes. She was wet already, he could feel her slippery folds resting on his thighs. He grunted. “ _You_ can fuck me, though,” he gruffly said. 

She braced her hands on his chest, eyes trailing down to his cock. Her gaze darkened hungrily. “I’m not sure how to,” she told him softly.

“You’re a fast learner,” he teased, helping her mount his thick, hard length. 

She mewled as the fat head of his cock rested against her nether lips, spreading her open. Daenerys teased herself along his shaft, rubbing herself on him to bring herself pleasure. He wanted her to use him however she pleased but that would be for another time. What he needed now was to be inside of her. “Daenerys,” he sneered, “take me inside of you.”

Her breathing was uneven, her thighs quivering as she lowered herself onto him, his cock sinking into her warm, soft cunt. “ _Fuck,_ ” she whispered. It was probably the first time he’d heard her curse and it was like music to his ears, so he vowed to reduce her to a cursing, moaning mess by the end of this night. 

Droplets of water still dribbled down her body, falling onto his skin. If he wasn’t so weak, he’d lick every drop clean from her flesh but he couldn’t, so he gritted his teeth and watched her. He placed both hands on her thighs, soothing her, coaxing her to move. 

It was a slow, torturous dance. She moved at such an excruciating pace it was somehow more painful than his injury. She was so tight around him he had to close his eyes and pray he wouldn’t finish like some green boy who just learned how to touch himself. 

He had _fucked_ before. But no woman felt like this—like her. The pleasure she brought him was beyond physical, being inside of her felt like home. Like this was where he belonged. She was less experienced than other girls he’d had but he would not have it any other way. Knowing he was the only one who’d been inside of her set his blood on fire. As he gazed into her contorted face, he wondered if he would ever be able to let her go. If he would ever be able to let her marry some lord or highborn man after him. _No._ He couldn’t. He would not. 

Her pace picked up, hips twisting to a new, faster rhythm now. The squelching sounds of their sexes filled the room and the sight of her golden-silver hair fanning all over her face and body filled his line of sight. He reached up to cup a bouncing breast while his other hand gripped her thigh to guide her. Daenerys moaned when he tweaked her nipple until it was cherry red. Her smell filled his nostrils, sweet from the bath but also the tart scent of her cunt, of sex, and he could almost taste her.

“Oh, ohhh, _fuck,_ ” she cried, and he could tell she was close by how unsteady her movements became, thighs clamping around his as she slid up and down his length.

“That’s it, love, ride me,” he cooed to her, squeezing her thighs in encouragement. “You’re doing so good, you feel so good.”

_Love? Where the fuck did that come from?_

Thankfully, she didn’t seem to notice, too lost in chasing her peak. There was a wildness to her now as she moved above him, like some goddess bathed in silver and gold, she was untamed and wanton, moaning for him. Letting go completely. There was nothing shy or delicate about the way she rolled her hips. She was confident—rode him like a horse.

Or a dragon. 

Her fingernails scraped along the skin of his chest as she fucked him hard and fast. His pain was gone and forgotten, her warm cunt the perfect remedy for his injuries.

He caressed her skin, touched her wherever he could reach. He trailed his knuckles up to her chest, his large hand wrapping around her neck. She whimpered as he cradled her cheek and touched her kiss-swollen lips with his thumb. She parted them for him, allowing his thumb to enter her mouth as she bit and sucked on it. He groaned at the feeling of her hot, wet mouth clamping on his digit, her saliva coating him, dripping to the ring he wore. It was dirty and beautiful. He imagined how her beautiful mouth would feel wrapped around his cock and nearly lost his breath. 

His eyes travelled down to where they were connected. Soft groans escaped him as he helped her up and down his length, his hands now groping at her ass and digging his fingers into the soft flesh to drive her wild, the tip of him hitting _that_ spot that made her squeal. As she rocked back and forth on his lap, the bed quivered and creaked. 

Someone could hear them. He hoped everyone did. 

She kept one hand on his chest for stability and used the other to slither between their bodies, to rub herself, but he pushed the hand away before she could touch her needy, sensitive bud. "No," he rasped, "You're going to cum on just my cock."

She moaned at his words and now whenever she took him inside of her, to the hilt, she would grind herself down on his pelvis to pleasure herself, her juices coating him and dribbling down his thighs. It felt fucking wonderful to watch her come undone. 

When she reached her climax, her silken walls convulsed around his cock. He groaned through his release, his hips snapping up to meet her thrusts as he spilled his seed inside of her warm channel. He knew there were precautions that could be taken to avoid any complications, and even if the most reliable way was not to cum inside of her, he couldn't help it. Neither could she. 

Daenerys collapsed on top of him, boneless and breathless. He pressed a kiss against her temple before sliding out of her. He kept his arms locked around her body, though, revelling in her warmth and smell for a little while longer. He missed her. 

“Seems like I will need another bath,” she mumbled into his neck. 

He laughed. “Do you want my help with this one?”

“Not if I want to stay clean this time,” she huffed. 

Afterwards, he got dressed again and made his way out of her bedchambers. 

She didn’t ask him to stay but never asked him to leave either. She only watched as he left, unspoken words lingering in the air. 

Staying was for lovers.

And he needed to believe he didn’t love her. 

Killing for her was easy but he couldn’t allow himself to be willing to die for her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Hope you all had a great start of the year, I just want to thank everyone for the support on this fic. It's kinda overwhelming, I never thought so many people would enjoy this but I'm very glad cause this story is like my baby so all your sweet comments mean the world :') 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter. Jon's POV is the hardest to tackle so I'm not gonna lie, I had a bit of a rough time getting through this and still don't feel 100% satisfied with the outcome but I had to get it out. Next up, we're back to Dany and it's *quite* angsty plus new characters are coming in to stir some shit. Get ready for that ;)
> 
> As always, I'm waiting to hear from you guys. Special thanks to the wonderful Queen_Lyanna for betaing & Nya for the moodboard <3
> 
> I'm always available on Tumblr if you want to reach me - @rhhaenyra


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm super late with this update, sorry!!! I'm not here to make excuses, real life's been keeping me busy. If I could I'd spend all my time writing BBTM but alas I have to work. Life's unfair. :/
> 
> This chapter was supposed to be a part of the next one but, well, it was getting too long and I'd probably be putting this up next month if I didn't split it into two. I'm not going to make any promises I can't keep so since I've been super busy I will probably be able to update once every two weeks now instead of one.

**x. truth behind the lies**

“We don’t have to keep hiding, you know.”

It took her a while to respond. Actually, it took her a while to realise she had been spoken to at all. With her front pressed up against the wall, his cock diving into her from behind, filling her up so completely, her brain seemed to be having a hard time doing its job, shutting down entirely so as to only experience the overwhelming pleasure he was inflicting upon her.

Daenerys was certain that by now, some of his men knew what was happening. They were not being discreet any longer. Or, she should say they were getting pretty bad at hiding it. It had been a few days since she’d awoken from her abrupt sickness, a few days since he’d come back from his battle with Robb Stark and during these past couple of days, they had barely kept their hands off each other. They took every opportunity that presented itself to hide away somewhere and… _ fuck. _

Perhaps it was the realisation that they could’ve lost one another that made them so frenzied now, seizing every given chance to get lost in  _ this,  _ whatever  _ this  _ was. All she knew was that it felt good, despite being bad, and it was all she wanted to do anymore. He was the first thing on her mind when the sun rose and the last thing on her mind before she drifted to sleep at night. She’d become greedy for it, and he gave her what she wanted, always – no matter the time or place. 

Like two days ago. After he’d had a meeting with some of his advisors and she was on her way out to the courtyard, their eyes crossed in the hallways and he understood. No words were needed to convey what they both wanted.

Minutes later, they were in some abandoned storeroom as he fucked her on the floor, harsh and hasty, the act far from being Kingly or proper for a lady. She could not bring herself to care.

He had her skirts hiked up, his forehead pressing into hers while his hips snapped repeatedly against her skin. She came with a violent cry when he began rubbing at her swollen nub, whispering sweet words in her ear.

_ Sweet.  _

Maybe that was not the correct term. 

Sometimes, he’d call her pretty, beautiful,  _ so gorgeous… _ and other times, when the pleasure was so delirious, he’d be filthier.  _ So fucking tight and wet for me, I’m going to fill you up so good, you’re such a good girl,  _ he’d coo in her ear and she loved  _ that  _ way more than she liked being called pretty or beautiful. Perhaps there was something wrong with her head. 

Once, he called her his  _ aunt  _ and she gasped, freezing under his weight. He wrapped his lips around her breast, suckling on her nipple like a babe would and smirked at her reaction. “You’re going to cum ‘round your nephew’s cock, aren’t you, Daenerys?” he’d whispered to her and she’d lost it.

It was the most powerful orgasm she’d ever had—she was shaking from head to toe, stars of all colours flashing behind her eyelids.

Just last evening, after he’d finished training outside, he came to her still sweaty and scarred – taking her against the wall, his hand wrapped around her throat as he pounded into her. It was hard and fast,  _ bruising,  _ so he clamped his palm over her mouth to stop her moans and screams from reaching the ears of passersby. 

And now, after he’d invited her to dinner along with the members of his Small Council. She didn’t want to go at first, not knowing how or where she fit in all of this, but he insisted, and she complied. She’d dressed up in a midnight black gown that had a deep cut down the neckline, long sleeves made of the finest silk she’d ever touched and whose skirts were the colour of blood on a battlefield. 

He remained expressionless as he greeted her but before she could take a seat next to him, he tugged on her hand and practically growled in her ear, “You know I love it when you wear Targaryen colours. I’m not gonna be able to keep my hands off you, but that’s exactly what you want, don’t you?”

She shook her head innocently but smiled as she sat. 

Yes, it was  _ exactly _ what she wanted. 

He made her want dirty, immoral things. 

It was wrong but it was true. 

She liked it when he lost control, and as she dined and wined with his most trusted men, she wondered how long he would last. Soon enough, she felt his hand on her knee, rubbing up and down. Daenerys hid a smile behind a glass of wine but then, her silly smile disappeared when his hand went  _ under  _ her dress – and gods know how they even got there through all the thick layers of clothing, he was truly a man of many talents – and his fingers started ghosting over the insides of her thigh. 

She glanced at him, begging for mercy with her eyes, but Aegon drank his wine and spoke ever so casually of politics and finance with his advisors while bringing his hand closer to her damp smallclothes.

She should’ve known she’d pay for this. He was not a merciful man. 

So, he brushed teasingly against her opening, toying with her as she squirmed in her seat, a single bead of sweat gathering on the skin above her brow. 

Sam Tarly, his friend and now hers too, noticed her discomfort as the King continued to massage her cunt under the table. “Daenerys,” the man said, sounding rather concerned, “Are you alright? You look…red.”

“Must be the wine,” she said, her tone squeaking in the end as she felt his finger touch her sensitive nub. Even through the layers, it still felt good. Not as good as it’d feel if she was naked, but good enough for her to know that if he kept doing it, kept applying pressure to her most sensitive parts, she’d come undone right there and then. At the dinner table. He tapped gently on the bundle of nerves before switching to small, soft circles.

“Perhaps you’re running another fever,” Aegon spoke, still stroking her,aw unbeknownst to everyone else, his eyes mischievous as he gazed at her ‘worriedly’, “You should retire for the night.”

“Yes,” she begged him with his eyes, quickly pushing herself away from his hand as a little smirk danced across his lips.

His guard Edd was quick to provide his service. “I can escort the lady back to her bedchambers, Your Grace.”

His smile dropped as he shot the man a look of annoyance. “That will not be necessary,” he said. “I will be back with you in a moment,” he addressed his men, smiling, “Daenerys is family, after all. And family…takes care of each other, right?”

And  _ gods,  _ did he take care of her. 

Dragged her to her rooms and slammed the door shut behind her. He did not waste time with trying to get her naked. He  _ loved  _ her dress—and wanted to fuck her in it. “Black and red suit you,” he told her before kissing her, delving his deft fingers into her hair and sliding through the tresses to loosen them. “You look like a goddess.”

She certainly felt like one as he moved her to the wall, whispering filthy words into her ear as he eagerly found her wet, warm centre and made quick work of his trousers to fuck her. Hard and fast – reminding her that he needed to be back with his men.

And also reminding her that they didn’t have to hide.

“We do,” she gasped as a particular stroke hit the perfect spot, setting her body on fire.

“I don’t care what anyone thinks,” he breathed out against her ear, pressing a soft kiss to the side of her neck as his hips snapped into hers from behind. “Do you?”

Yes. She did care.

She wasn’t like him. She cared about what  _ everyone  _ would think — her mother, Missandei, Gendry, the lords and ladies at court…. What would they think of her if they knew of the relationship she had with her abductor? How he fucked her, made her moan and cum, made her feel better than anyone ever did?

She wanted not to care. But she couldn’t stop. 

“Faster,” she gasped instead, his question long forgotten as she felt herself nearing her climax.

He chuckled against her moist skin, his hands gripping her hips as he pounded into her with all he had, making her mouth fall open as soft moans escaped her. He was everywhere at once, inside of her, all around her yet she still needed him closer – wanted him to invade every pore of her body until he was all she felt. 

“Are you close?” he grunted into her ear, one hand shooting up to press against the wall as his cock thrust in and out of her at a faster pace.

“Yes, yes,” she chanted in a voice that was unrecognisable to her, high-pitched and lustful. “So close, it feels so good,” she moaned everything that came to mind. 

“Daenerys?”

They both stopped for a moment, for the voice was not him moaning her name but a new, feminine one coming from behind the closed door. Her lungs constricted when it dawned upon her.  _ Missandei _ . The moment Jon realised that, though, he started moving again, without a care in the world as he nuzzled his face into her neck, biting on her flesh teasingly. 

“Yes?” Daenerys answered, her voice trembling.

“Can I come in? Why’s the door locked?” Her friend asked. 

She’d absolutely forgotten that Missandei was supposed to join her that night – as she did every night. It was easy to forget things when she was with him. It was easy to forget who she was when he was buried inside of her. “I’m—” Her voice got caught in her throat when she felt his hand snaking under her dress, rubbing at her swollen nub as he fucked her slowly, deeply. She shuddered in his arms and if there wasn’t a wall and his body sandwiching hers, she was sure that her knees would give out and she’d be falling to the ground. “I’m coming, I just need a moment,” she managed to speak between shallow thrusts.

“Yes, you’re  _ coming _ ,” the King whispered hotly in her ear. “All over my cock. Isn’t that right, Daenerys?”

“Uhm, okay,” Missandei replied unsurely, “I’ll be back in a few.”

“YES!” She shouted – both to her friend and Aegon as she felt the bubble of pleasure at the base of her stomach explode, her cunt convulsing around his length. 

When it was over, Daenerys turned to find him frowning to himself as he pulled his trousers back up, a look of discontentment on his face. 

“Is something wrong?” she asked unsurely, not knowing what would cause him to look so unhappy after  _ this.  _

His eyes snapped to hers and softened. “Don’t worry,” he told her, stepping closer to brush away the strands of hair that fell on her face.

His cheeks were flushed and mouth bruised. He was still beautiful. “I wasn’t but now you’re worrying me,” she admitted. 

He looked so stressed these past few days. He was there with her, physically, but mentally he was elsewhere. “I have to take care of a few things, that’s all,” he told her.

That was all he did anymore— _ take care of things _ . She never asked, never wanted to pry in things that did not concern her but that night, she’d had a drink, and the wine in her system made her brave. “What things?” she asked. 

She had no right to ask anything of him, and perhaps he would remind her of that, but instead, he looked into her eyes and said, “I will tell you everything once I find out what I’m looking for.”

***

Gendry was  _ furious. _

He paced the length of the room, back and forth, on edge and not knowing what to do.

“You promised you wouldn’t hurt her,” he sighed.

Varys shook his head. “I never promised anything,” he stated calmly.

Gendry shot him a reproachful look. “Why did you do this? Why couldn’t you wait for me? You weren’t supposed to make any decision without consulting  _ me _ first.”

The man who was dealing with this in a much more serene way rolled his eyes. “Even if the truth hit you in the face, you’d still never accept it because you’re in love with her. You don’t truly know her or what she is capable of. I will not apologise for trying to get rid of her before she and Aegon become unstoppable.”

“You don’t know her either!”

“I know that she loves  _ him _ . I know that she’d choose  _ him _ . But you were stupid enough to believe that she’d agree to kill him.” Varys scoffed. “You should have never gotten her involved. Now, she knows too much. And that’s why I had to get rid of her.” 

Gendry huffed. Daenerys couldn’t love  _ Aegon,  _ she was a lot better than him. What was there to love about a man like him anyway? Dany was smarter than to fall for the veil of kindness he presented her with, only to lure her in and trap her in his web of pretences. “It did not work, though, did it? Look where you got us now. Aegon knows that you tried to poison Daenerys and sent all of his men looking for you. You’ve fucked  _ everything  _ up.” 

“Everybody makes mistakes. Even the ones who believe they are the smartest. I thought the poison would work. I was  _ promised _ it would.” He paused and quieter, said, “It didn’t. I was wrong, even if it pains me to admit it.”

Gendry didn’t care about admissions of guilt for the time being. He needed to know how they’d get out of this mess  _ alive.  _ “What now?”

“If he doesn’t execute me right away, I will manage to escape overnight,” Varys concluded, “The only hard part will be making it past the city gates. Once I’m out, I have a boat ready.”

Gendry raked a hand through his hair, his body tense. “That’s it, then? You run away? What happens to me when he finds out about—” 

“I will never give your name up. I am a lot of things, Gendry, but not disloyal. I may not survive this, but you can.”

“It shouldn’t have to end this way.”

“It’s not that bad. Perhaps I’ll make my way to one of the Free Cities and watch as Westeros falls apart. Gods know I tried to stop it.” Varys took in a deep breath before letting it all out, “You may not believe in prophecies or visions, but I know what the Red Priestess told me. I saw it with my own eyes. She showed me what was in the flames, Gendry, and I saw it all.” A shadow fell upon Varys’ face, a haunted glint in his eyes as he seemed to recall the horrific things he had seen. “The last two Targaryens will bring fire and blood to Westeros and will not let their dynasty die. Dragons will be back.”

Despite the gravity of the situation and the fact that they were running out of time, Gendry found himself letting out a chuckle at the absurdity of what he was saying. “Dragons?” he repeated. “The large, fire-breathing beasts which have been extinct for centuries?”

“Yes,” Varys seethed, “ _ Dragons _ . You may take me for a fool, Gendry, but I  _ wish  _ I didn’t see the things that I did.”

Gendry shook his head. He could believe in a lot of things but not creatures that were so long gone some thought they might be mythical. “Do you hear yourself?”

Varys sighed. “It’s too late anyway, whether you believe me or not changes nothing.”

“Daenerys will hate me,” Gendry gritted out, “Because of you. When she finds out that you’ve tried to poison her, she will hate both of us. We were supposed to be the good people in all of this. How will she see any good in us after what you’ve tried to do?”

“You can’t protect her. She made a choice.”

“You don’t know that.”

Varys looked tired of him questioning his words. “Go on, then. Ask Daenerys if she is ready to kill Aegon. You’ll see what her answer is.”

Gendry narrowed his eyes at him.

Varys didn’t know Dany like he did. He knew her heart, it was not the same as the black one Aegon possessed. And the thought of the King and her— _ no.  _

Varys had to be wrong. 

He just  _ had  _ to be.

Varys placed a hand on his shoulder, giving him a reassuring squeeze before they parted ways. “Farewell, Gendry. I’m sorry our journey together has to end like this.”

***

“Dany.”

There was only one person in the castle to address her as such, so it was not hard to guess who was standing behind her as she made her way to her bedchambers with a book in hand that she just got from the library. It was about dragons, a subject that had always piqued her interest, but one which she never got to explore much, because her mother was against it.

Daenerys stopped walking and turned around. “Gendry,” she greeted him, trying to sound nice, but she probably came across as apprehensive—which she was. 

“I can never seem to catch you alone,” he said pointedly. 

She licked her lips. “I know.”

She watched as he looked about uncertainly, brows furrowing like there was a lot on his mind. “Will you come see me later? I wish to talk to you.”

Daenerys understood the meaning behind his words. “I will,” she promised. 

He looked like he wanted to say a lot more but managed a curt nod before walking past her.

She let out a heavy puff of breath as his footsteps faded away. 

As she turned back around, Daenerys gasped and almost stumbled backwards when she was met with Aegon’s stormy gaze, his hands behind his back as he stood and looked at her.

“You scared me,” she complained. 

His dark eyes were fixed on hers. “What did he want?”

“To talk,” she offered simply. 

He did not look convinced. He walked forward, coming close to her. “What does he want to talk about?” he asked instead, cocking his head to the side. 

His gaze was unnerving. It was curious but with a more dangerous glint than  _ just  _ curiosity. She wondered if he knew about…no. That was not it. He was only suspicious, and she had to melt his suspicions away. “Just talk,” she answered, shrugging as if it was no big deal, batting her eyelashes at him prettily. 

He narrowed his eyes, eyes still pulled down in a frown. “Why does he call you Dany?”

She chuckled despite herself. “It’s a nickname.”

“Yes, and? That doesn’t answer my question.”

“He’s my friend,” Daenerys said, “You know it.”

He huffed. “I think it’s a stupid name.”

She rolled her eyes. “I think you’re just jealous.” It was a funny idea, him being jealous over  _ Gendry  _ who was literally no one compared to him. But it was also, somehow, a pleasant thought. Her stomach curling warmly at the thought of him being jealous about  _ her _ when he was the most powerful man in Westeros. 

“I’m not jealous,” he replied darkly, face inching closer to hers, “I don’t like him. I don’t like him around you—I don’t trust him around you. You don’t need to be friends with  _ him.  _ Missandei is enough.” He paused before adding, “I don’t want you to go see him.”

“Is that an order?” she inquired flatly.

“Yes,” he replied easily. 

“You can’t do that,” she declared, “Treat me like your lover when you wish to and then order me around like your prisoner at the same time.”

“You are both,” he pointed out and it irked her.

“I don’t want to be both,” she said animatedly, “So, pick one. If I’m just your prisoner, I’m not going to let you fuck me and control everything else.”

His eyes flashed. “How is it any different from what you do? You have no problem screaming my name when I fuck you, but you can barely breathe in my direction when we are in public. You don’t want people to know how much I pleasure you, because you’re ashamed of this.”

She gritted her teeth. He did have a point. “Maybe we should re-discuss what our relationship is, then.” Because with time, it was getting more complicated and they were bound to get tangled up in the lies, secrets and lust. 

He looked unphased. “Fine, but you’re not seeing Gendry.”

“Whatever you wish,  _ Your Grace, _ ” she told him, the last two words being uttered mockingly, just to anger him as much as he did her. 

***

He never intended to use  _ it  _ for bad intentions. But the situation was now dire—Varys was going to disappear and Aegon would tell Daenerys what he’d tried to do, poison and kill her, and Gendry would lose Dany forever. She would hate him and would never trust him again. 

The King would win, as he always did. 

And he could not have that. Not when it came to Dany.

It had happened sometime when she was still unconscious a few days prior. Gendry was walking down the hallway when he caught a young man posted in front of Daenerys’ bedchambers, looking unsurely at the door. 

“What are you doing here?” Gendry had asked him, wondering why he looked so fidgety and anxious. 

“A letter just came from Dragonstone,” he answered, his hand lightly trembling, “Th-the King always asks me to deliver these l-letters to him personally b-but he also asked no one to disturb him when he’s w-with Lady—Princess Daenerys. I don’t know what to do.”

Dragonstone. Gendry soon understood that this came from Dany’s mother, Rhaella. He also knew that the King controlled the ingoing and outgoing of letters between these two. The poor boy looked white with fear. It was clear that he was naught but an apprentice, someone lacking the confidence to face Aegon at such a time. He was right to be afraid, anyway, since the King had gotten a lot more violent ever since Daenerys fell ‘sick’. 

“Just give it to me,” Gendry suggested. At the time, he genuinely just wished to be of aid to the young boy who could not be older than eight and ten. 

He blinked rapidly. “I’m not sure th-that’s a good idea. The King’s o-orders were clear.”

“I will deliver it to him,” Gendry swore. “If you even so much as knock on this door right now, you’ll be headless in the next few moments.”

That was enough to tip him over. He shoved the letter into his hands and ran off, never to be seen again. 

As Gendry glanced down at the piece of paper, his curiosity got the best of him. No one would know if he just flicked the seal open….

What he’d found inside chilled him to the bones. He knew that he had to give it to Daenerys right away, as soon as she awoke— _ if  _ she awoke.

That was his plan all along.

But that was before the risk of losing her became so palpable. 

Now, that letter was all that could save their almost doomed relationship.

***

_ Varys. _

It was a name he hadn’t heard in years. 

Jon knew he was one of Jaime’s men and when he had driven a sword through the Lannister’s throat, Varys had been smart enough to run away. The King didn’t have any problems with that. If he was in Varys’ place, he would flee too.

Except, he wouldn’t be foolish enough to return. 

His search led to and landed on the eunuch. The cook had told Aegon that a young girl – not older than ten – was the one who came with the poisoned food. It was a large city, after all, and it took quite a while for Jon to get his hands on the correct child. In the meantime, he tried not to worry Daenerys. He knew he owed her the truth, but he needed to know it for himself first. The little girl took some time to admit who’d set her up to this. But in the end, the truth came out. And it was a truth that confused Jon.

As much as he wanted to see the man who wanted to kill Daenerys dead, he needed answers first. 

So, he ordered his guards to look for Varys all over the city and bring him to the castle—alive. 

When he was informed that they’d successfully located and captured him, Jon went down to where he was, locked in a cell, and wished to know what it was that he wanted. 

“Bring Daenerys down here,” he requested Sam. “She needs to know what happened to her.”

Varys watched him come closer. A few torches were lit but the underground prison cell was still very dark, so he couldn’t make out his expression. Fearful? Regretful? Surprised that he was caught? Jon could not tell.

“You were among the men who worked to overthrow Aerys,” the King pointed out as he stared at the bald man behind bars, who was sat in a corner, as quiet as the shadows that danced around him. “I would ask you why you hate me, but I feel like I’ve heard enough versions of this answer already.”

Finally, Varys stepped out of the darkness and approached the metallic bars separating them. He looked at Jon for a long moment, examining his face. “In your eyes, I see the same madness I had once seen in Aerys’.”

“You wound me. My grandfather was a stupid man, I don’t intend to die as he did.”

His reply was mocking. “I have no doubts about that, My King.”

“I just want to know…why would you want to kill Daenerys?” he asked. “She did nothing to you, did she?”

He refused to answer, acting as if though he had not heard the question at all.

Aegon cucked his tongue, frustration steadily rising inside of him. “Are you going to make me  _ force  _ you to answer?”

Still no reply.

“We’ll see if you act so brave if there is pain involved,” the King chuckled ominously.

Varys visibly gulped at his words but to his credit, he made no move to start talking. 

Before Aegon could proceed with the interesting ways he had up his sleeve to obtain answers from his prisoner, each more painful than the one before, Sam’s heavy footsteps resonated around them. He was running to the King, a frantic look on his face. “Daenerys is gone,” he breathed out rapidly.

“Gone?” Jon repeated, bewildered and slow to digest what he was being told. “Gone where?”

With shaky hands, Sam presented him with a scroll. “This was on her bed,” he said, exhaling loudly. 

The King grabbed the note from his friend, quickly rolling it open to read the scribbled words, a clear sign that the person was in a hurry. 

_ Disappointed does not begin to describe what I feel right now.  _

_ If it is too late, I will never forgive you. _

_ Daenerys. _

***

There was a conversation she was still running from. 

Well, Daenerys  _ was  _ sick so it wasn’t as if she was purposefully avoiding it. But now, she was feeling a lot better, and she knew she had to put an end to this before it got too far. She couldn’t pretend that all was well, because it wasn’t. She had a choice to make and she had to stick by it. 

Gendry would hate her for it. Varys would, too, if he didn’t already. 

But she could not lie to herself any longer. She would never be able to  _ kill  _ Jon. Even if it was somehow possible for her to get to him and have him in such a vulnerable position that he could be killed, she knew – from the depths of her soul and heart – that she would never be able to do it. Maybe that made  _ her  _ a bad person, perhaps it ought to be easy to want to get rid of someone like him, but it wasn’t. Not for her. She also didn’t want any part in it. 

It took her a while to realise it. It took her even longer to overcome the denial. Her relationship with the King was complicated and rocky, a turbulent sea of emotions she was helplessly drowning in but she didn’t want to be saved. She wanted to make it out of that sea by herself. She wasn’t this… _ saviour _ Gendry thought she was.

No, Aegon was right all along. 

If she desired him so much, then it must mean she was just as bad as him. If she found him half as horrible as everyone around her claimed, then she should not crave him like she did.

A long, black cloak with a hood pulled over her hair wasn’t the perfect disguise but it did its job in concealing who she was as she slipped past guards easily, making her way to Gendry’s room. She was well aware that she was disobeying the King’s direct orders, but this had to be done. She needed to put an end to this before it spiralled out of control.

When he opened the door after she knocked, he frowned in confusion. “Who is this?”

“Daenerys,” she mumbled, her head bowed, and he quickly ordered her to get in.

“I thought you wouldn’t come.” He sounded relieved as he let her in, bolting the door before he turned to look at her. 

“I still have an answer to give you,” she said simply, not wishing to prolong this any longer.

Gendry’s eyes flickered with recognition. “I did not want to pressure you with these things, not while you were sick,” he told her softly, understandingly. “Are you okay, Dany?”

“I’m feeling a lot better, yes.”

“So you’ve made up your mind?”

She licked her lips.  _ My mind was already made up a long time ago, I was just too afraid to admit it. _ She did not want Gendry to hate her—she  _ did  _ like him. He was a friend and a confidant. “Gendry,” she began, sighing regretfully, “What you asked of me…”

“Before you say anything,” he interjected, stepping forward hesitantly, “I just want you to know that I understand that I’ve put you in a hard and awkward situation.”

She blinked in surprise. 

So far, Gendry had been pushy and insistent, not really caring about what she felt on the matter. For the first time ever, he was showing sympathy. As if the gods were being cruel to her, he was already making her feel guiltier for choosing Jon over him. Her stomach coiled as he continued, “I was angry and afraid the other day, which is why I might have been a bit too harsh on you. I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”

“I’m glad you understand this is hard for me,” she supplied. And the next part would be hard for both of them.

But he was not done talking. “And I think you deserve to know this…no matter what you’ve decided.”

Her mind-wrestling came to a stop. “Know what?” she asked apprehensively.

“Your mother is very sick.”

Daenerys’ mind went blank. “My…mother,” she repeated slowly, the words failing to make sense when put together in her head. “No, she’s fine. What are you speaking of?”

“How do you know she’s fine?”

“Because we have been sending each other letters.” She kept them under her bed, and she would re-read them if she ever missed Rhaella. They’d bring great comfort to her. So, she had no clue what he was speaking of. In the last message she’d received, Rhaella spoke of no ailment. “Why do  _ you  _ think she is unwell?” Daenerys asked in a snappy tone. 

“Varys.”

“Varys what?”

“He’s a very resourceful man. Sometimes even I ignore how he manages to—”

“Gendry,” Daenerys cut him off, not liking where this was heading. Her guts tightened to the point that she was feeling nauseous. “What is the meaning of this?”

Gendry nodded to her and walked past her, deeper into his room, going to a drawer and pulling it open. She stood and watched, her heart lodged painfully in her throat, as he turned back to her and lifted a folded piece of paper. “Varys found this. The letter your mother sent you about a fortnight ago,” he said. 

Daenerys practically snatched it from his hand, her trembling fingers doing quick work to smoothen it out so she could see it in its entirety. Her eyes scanned over the page, no time to read it slowly, only capturing important words:  _ Daenerys…your absence has proven more detrimental to my health than I could have anticipated …not sure how long I’ll make it without you…ask the King…let us see each other…before it’s too late.  _ “No,” she whispered to herself. “But…but the letters I got…” she trailed off, nothing making sense anymore. In her letter, her mother spoke of mundane things that made Daenerys believe everything was alright.

When she looked up, Gendry was looking at her pitifully.

“ _ He _ hid this one from you,” he said, his tone forceful and spiteful.

“He wouldn’t do that,” she answered through gritted teeth, almost instinctively. Since when had it become an instinct of hers to try and defend him?

Gendry seemed to notice that as well, something in his gaze growing a few shades darker. But instead of yelling at her, it looked as if he forced himself to calm down. “Dany,” he spoke to her softly, “Who has been there for you from the beginning?”

She eyed him sceptically. “You,” she allowed.

He nodded. “I’m imploring you to trust  _ me _ on this. I would never want to harm you. I’ve only wanted to help you, from the very first time I saw you.”

“I know,” she said weakly.

She felt like the world was crumbling to pieces around her as she stood in the middle, not knowing what to do to make it stop. Or at least slow down so she could understand what was happening.

“You know what Aegon’s plan was in the beginning. To kill you. Find the relative he’d abandoned on that island and kill her, that was what we went to Dragonstone for,” he told her. 

She looked away.

“The only reason he didn’t was because of that…vision and whatever that priestess told him about you.”

“How do you know about the vision?” she asked but got the answer by herself. “Varys,” she deduced.

He paused to look at her. “He knows, as well as I do, that the only reason Aegon treated you differently from the other prisoners is because he needs something from you. To fulfil whatever prophecy for the survival of his House.” When he took a step toward her, placing him only a few inches away from her, Daenerys had no strength to react or move away. She continued staring at him. “If he cared for you, he would’ve let you see your mother. But he didn’t—he wants to keep you in the dark because he can’t let you go back to Rhaella. He can’t let your mother come between the two of you. He is selfish and  _ you _ ’re only the means to an end for him.”

Betrayal was a sharp sting in her chest. She felt as if something had splintered inside of her. Her heart, possibly. Aegon had made it clear that he was not very fond of Rhaella, telling Daenerys that he did not bring her to King’s Landing because she would do everything in her power to drive them apart and ruin any  _ progress  _ she would make on her own, but she never thought that he hated her to the point of being willing to let her  _ die  _ alone in Dragonstone without so much as informing Daenerys, consciously lying to her to make sure the truth stayed hidden. Just so she would not ask to go back to her mother.

She thought she knew Jon by now. Knew that despite everything else, he cared for her…didn’t he? Was she only projecting her own feelings onto him?

Earlier, she found something endearing about his possessiveness but now she was scared. Was this why he wanted to distance her from everyone? She thought his reaction to Gendry was mere jealousy but to keep her away from her own mother? 

Gendry was right. If he cared for her, he would never do this. He knew how much Rhaella meant to her.

“He said he’d take me to her,” Daenerys protested, her voice frail. “He promised that if I ever wish to see Rhaella, I only had to ask.”

“Words don’t mean anything if there is no action to back them up with,” Gendry proclaimed brutally, “it’s easy to make false promises you have no intention of fulfilling. Do you honestly think lying is hard for someone like him?”

She lowered her head, trying to convince herself this wasn’t the case. Had she just imagined it, how much care he’d shown her when she was sick? Was the affection in his eyes ever truly there or just a fragment of her imagination, her desperation to be loved? She thought she saw  _ something  _ flicker in the grey depths of his irises—something that burned deeper than lust and desire. Was she only lying to herself? “My mother,” she whispered, glancing down at the epistle. Her vision blurred and a single tear rolled down her cheek, splashing on the paper, causing the ink to spread on the spot. “I have to see her.”

Was she dead already? Was Daenerys too late?

Bile formed a bubble at the base of her throat. She felt physically ill.

“He might not but  _ I _ care for you,” Gendry swore, grabbing onto her face with both hands and forcing her gaze up to his eyes. Determinedly, he told her, “Fuck the plan.”

“What?” she whispered, confused.

“Fuck…everything that I told you about. Fuck Varys and his conspiracies. Getting rid of Aegon, killing him. I don’t care anymore, Dany. I care about you.” He paused in contemplation before dropping his voice to a quiet murmur before saying the next words. “I love you.”

Daenerys startled at those three words. 

No one had ever uttered them to her before, not in a romantic sense anyway. By the glint in his eyes, she knew he meant it in that way. Many a time before, she imagined hearing them from a man. It was a silly dream she used to entertain when she was but a young girl, who liked stories of knights and princes and thought she’d find her own one day and how it would be beautiful and fill her heart with joy to hear those three words from that man. How they’d make her all warm, make her heart flutter like a colourful butterfly batting its wings in her chest but…she felt none of that. 

Everything felt wrong. Too much was happening at once, she felt like she was going to throw up and Gendry’s words only intensified that feeling. “I…” she unsurely began, not comprehending why he was telling her this. How could he love her? Did she love him back? She did have a lot of affection for him, but… _ love?  _ How did he know he loved her, anyway? She couldn’t tell what it was supposed to feel like. She’d never been in love before. “I need to see Rhaella,” she choked out. That was her priority for the moment, nothing else.

“Let’s get out of here, you and I,” he pressed, thumbs skimming over the wet skin of her tear-stained cheeks. 

She gazed at him incredulously. 

He nodded encouragingly. “To see your mother.”

She nodded at that, almost in a daze, she didn’t know how but she  _ had  _ to see her mother. If Rhaella died without her by her side, Daenerys would never forgive herself for it. “We can’t just leave,” she reasoned, albeit her wishes.

“I know a way out. It’s all planned. I have a boat ready. But we have to leave  _ now _ ,” he told her fiercely, like he was running out of time.

She backed away from him. “Gendry…”

“I’ll get you to your mother, Dany. And we’ll be free to do as we please.” He tried coming towards her again, but she stepped back, now uncertain and wary of all of this, and he seemed hurt by her reaction. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted for you ever since I saw  _ him  _ take you away from your mother. I vowed that I would bring you back to your home.”

_ Home.  _ Oh, how rare that word had become now. A distant memory of another life. 

Was Dragonstone still her home?

She was overwhelmed. Swamped by all that was happening. “I need to speak to Aegon,” she said mindlessly, “He’ll explain himself.”

“What is there left to explain?” Gendry asked impatiently, temper snapping. “Dany, if we don’t get out of here before nightfall, we never will.”

Daenerys pressed a hand to her forehead, her chest heaving with painful breaths. This couldn’t be happening to her. 

The parchment weighed down on her palm, like she was holding a brick. She could almost see Rhaella—alone somewhere, on her bed, thinking about her.  _ Let us see each other…before it’s too late.  _ The thought of never seeing her mother again, never getting to hold her or see her smile again…the thought of Rhaella dying… _ no. _

She was all Rhaella had left in the world. And her mother needed her.

There would be consequences to her actions. And perhaps, if she thought it through, she’d realise that this was a bad idea. But in that very moment, none of that mattered. 

If Jon wouldn’t let her see her mother, then she’d do so by herself.

“You can show me the way,” Daenerys told Gendry, “And you don’t have to leave with me.” She did not want to cause more problems.

He shook his head, his blue eyes truthful as he promised, “I will never leave you alone.”

The silver-haired woman gave a final, decisive nod. “Go on. I’ll be right behind you in a moment.”

The moment Gendry went out, she rummaged through the things on top of her desk to find a quill and paper. On it, she scribbled down a few words for the King. She didn’t have the time to find the right ones, and her heart was heavy; ready to crack and bleed, so she only wrote what she felt at that very moment.

And with that, Daenerys left. She never looked back.

***

Many people believed Sam was not afraid of the King. But that was not true. His tantrums and hasty, disastrous ways of dealing with things…of course, sometimes Sam was afraid of him too. 

But Sam loved  _ Jon,  _ not Aegon Targaryen and his many titles, but the friend who’d been with him when they were both kids, both orphans who had no one but each other. Sam’s adoration for that boy outweighed his fear for the person he became when he’d put on his crown. 

So, the only reason Sam reached out to him that night was because he cared for Jon. Even Gilly advised him against it, insisting that he did not wish to be disturbed at such a time. But against his better judgment, Sam still went. He had to make sure Jon was alright. He often hid behind the monarch’s mask but he was still human, and humans hurt. 

“Jon?” His voice was quiet and uncertain when he entered the King’s quarters. 

Jon was perched on the settee by the hearth. His eyes were fixed, unmoving upon the flames, his fist resting against his mouth, the yellowish flickering lights catching on the jewels encrusted in the golden rings he wore.

“Jon,” he repeated, firmer this time.

While he didn’t look away from the flames, Jon nodded once, allowing his friend to speak. 

Sam switched on his feet, his forehead growing damp at the high temperature in the room. “Are you alright?” he asked.

No response came. 

Sam sighed quietly. “I don’t know what to say,” he began, “I did not expect her to—” 

“You don’t have to say anything,” Jon replied, his voice gentle but as hard as steel. Sam hesitantly approached him. He stopped moving when the King stood up, dragging his eyes away from the fire to look at him. His face was expressionless but his eyes…it was as if he’d captured all the flames and enclosed them behind his eyelids. They were dark and gloomy; burning with something even Sam couldn’t identify. 

Sam did not like this. There was something off about him. “Do you understand what that note meant?” he asked.

“This?” Jon asked, showing him the crumpled piece of paper. 

Before Sam could nod, he tossed it in the fire, not looking away from him. The paper turned into ashes within mere seconds. “I don’t care what it means.”

It was obvious to Sam that he did care. Maybe a bit too much. He tried his best to find the right words to comfort his friend. “Jon…perhaps this is all a misunderstanding and if you—”

He held up a finger to silence Sam, shaking his head. “I believe she did me a favour. She reminded me of who I am. For that, I have to thank her. I had become weak.  _ For _ her,  _ because of _ her.” A slow smile spread across his lips—but never reached his sinister, detached eyes. “Not anymore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I'm assuming most of you hate me for this one. Oops. It's actually in the next chapter that we'll be introduced to new characters and more drama ensues, don't kill me just yet. Thanks to my beta as always. And to everyone on Twitter, I'm often lurking on there so (*Bran Stark's voice* I see everything) and you guys' tweets are hilarious. Now I'm going into hiding.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Is anyone still here? It's been a while, huh? As most of you know why I had taken some time off, I just wanna say thank you for all the kind words and understanding. I'm feeling a lot better now and I'm very happy to be back. Getting back to writing has been kinda tough but I promised you guys that I'm not going anywhere and BBTM is getting finished and I fully intend to keep this promise. This chapter is not what it initially was supposed to be, I had a lot planned but decided to cut most of it out so I can make sure everything is the way I want it to be. Not a lot happens here, but I feel like I had to get something out there because I've kept you guys waiting for like 2 months now. So...happy reading! :)

**xi. the dragon and the rose**

“Do you remember when it was just the two of us, when we were kids? Life seemed simpler back then.”

Sam laughed. “Life was  _ shit  _ back then _ , _ ” he corrected the King.

His friend snorted lazily. Yes. It was pure shit. Being an orphan was not something to be wished upon a child. It was the most confusing part of Jon’s life. At the end of the day, everyone was who they were because of their identity. Even if some ran from their bloodline, there was no escaping it.

So, living so long without knowing who  _ he  _ was…it was tough for Jon. At least some of the other kids knew who their parents were. Some had mothers who were painters, so they’d take up painting. Some had fathers who were cooks, so they would grow up baking. It was easier to find a purpose when one knew what they were brought in this world to do. What they were meant to be. Jon spent over a decade of his life not knowing why he was here, why he was alive, why his parents wanted a child— _ whether  _ they wanted a child. Were they dead? Was he simply abandoned? Did they love him? If they did, and were alive, then why was he with all the other homeless kids with no family?

Family was the strangest concept to him. Everyone had a family. Even some of the children with no mothers or fathers had relatives who’d come see them, who’d take them away. Jon had…no idea where he came from.

Even Sam Tarly knew. He knew his father abandoned him after his mother died. “He chose my brother,” he had told Jon once when they were little and had just become friends.

“Why?” Jon asked. Parents weren’t supposed to choose between their kids, were they?

“Because he isn’t fat and useless, I suppose,” Sam sniffed self consciously.

Jon would’ve felt bad for him if Sam hadn’t told him about what a terrible person his father was, and how it was better to be without a family than one that hurt him. Still, Jon wanted to know about his. He deserved to.

“It would’ve been a whole lot easier if I had silver hair,” the King now reflected, staring up at the dark sky.

Sam laughed once more. He was already drunk—he laughed a lot when he was intoxicated. “Wait, let me try to imagine you with white hair.” A pause and then, he stomped his foot on the ground, coughing between loud fits of laughter. Even Aegon had to smile. “I  _ can’t.  _ You would look hideous.”

“Fuck off,” Jon said, chuckling, before taking a swig of his drink. He was used to this. Sam even made fun of his real name, saying Jon suited him better than Aegon did. The man in question did not necessarily agree.  _ Jon  _ meant nothing. Aegon was different, it was a name that instilled fear and awe; it meant power. Fire and Blood.

Sam sobered up with a few nods, “I know what you mean. Maybe if you had a clue about your identity earlier on then…”

“Then we wouldn’t have had such a miserable childhood,” Jon finished for him.

“I wouldn’t call it miserable. Ever since you came into my life, not a day went by that was boring.”

“That was because you somehow always found yourself in shit that I had to get you out of.” The King rolled his eyes. “How many of those boys have I fought off for you?”

“Hey, it’s not my fault. They were the bullies. I never went looking for trouble.” Sam sighed happily. “I remember when you broke that kid’s nose. What was his name again…?”

“Thomos.”

“Yes!” Sam exclaimed, chortling. “Gods, there was so much blood.”

“You fainted,” Jon deadpanned.

“Because there was so much blood,” Sam repeated animatedly.

Aegon smiled into the night, the fond memories replaying in his head. Well, fond for him—certainly not for the boys whose bone structures were perhaps indefinitely damaged because of him.

It wasn’t his fault that he was better than all of them.

“I don’t miss it, though. The life before. I like where I am now. I couldn’t be luckier,” Sam said contentedly.

“I know,” Jon murmured.

When Tyrion came to find him and told him the truth of his parentage, his whole life was flipped upside down. From an orphan boy who barely had enough to eat to get through the day to…to the rightful heir of the Iron Throne?

It seemed surreal to him. He couldn’t believe the dwarf. Only after he had shown him the letter Lyanna had left behind did Jon begin to trust his words. He was Rhaegar’s son. Jaime killed Rhaegar. His mother was dead because of them. And Ned Stark…he was supposed to be his family, but he never came looking for his nephew. He let his sister die. His whole life had been a lie—his name wasn’t even Jon. 

“I will help you retake the Iron Throne from my brother,” Tyrion Lannister had promised him. “I should’ve done this a long time ago. I should’ve known Jaime wasn’t fit for this.”

Jon knew, from that very moment, that it would not be enough. So much injustice had happened against him and his family. He did not just want what was rightfully his, he wanted  _ everything _ —the blood, the chaos, the suffering.

The beast that slept inside of him – the one that only sometimes cracked an eye open when someone got on his last nerves, like the stupid kids who picked on Sam – finally awoke that day. It was a dragon.  _ He  _ was a Dragon.

Jon had never felt any connection to Targaryens before. He was a normal kid for the most part, (except he truly did believe he was better than most lads his age), but after he discovered his parentage, he wondered how he never realised he was one. Fire and blood was  _ ingrained  _ in him.

“So,” Tarly drawled, staring at his empty cup, “are we going to keep avoiding the subject?”

“What subject?”

Sam gave him a look, because they both knew he was aware of what they were avoiding.

He’d begun dreaming of her again.

It was not the good kind either, for he woke up drenched in his own sweat, his heart pounding in his ears. The  _ visions  _ or hallucinations or dreams—whatever they were—were more impactful now. He dreaded falling asleep knowing she’d come back to him, with her bright purple eyes and smiles. Sometimes, the dreams were sweet. She’d kiss him tenderly and showed him all the love he’d never known; but when he awoke, it was the same thing. That sinking void in his chest grew worse with each passing day.

Jon tried many things to distract himself and not think about her. He tried picturing what his life was like  _ before  _ Daenerys. The weird thing was, the more time he’d spent with her, the more his mind seemed to wish to forget there was ever a before. Like his memories were being washed away to make space for new ones with her.

Every room he walked in, there was an associated memory with Daenerys. A smile of hers, something she said, the sweet sound of her laughter, her scandalised look when he’d say or do something she disapproved of.

Even  _ horses  _ reminded him of her.

Especially the one with the silver mane. He asked to get rid of it, and when the stable boy asked why, saying it was one of their fastest, the King threatened to gouge his eyes out, so no further queries were made.

Alas, it served little to no purpose. If he wanted to forget Daenerys, he’d have to quite literally get rid of almost everything she touched, every place she’d been to. And that was impossible. He’d have to get rid of  _ himself,  _ for he could still feel the ghost of her skin and mouth on him, even her smell lingered on his bedsheets.

He hated her for all of it.

“Whenever Gilly and I have an altercation of any sort, we sit down and  _ talk  _ about it. You’d be surprised how much a conversation can solve,” Sam said.

Aegon emptied his cup of wine with a last sip and sighed heavily. “Would you be open to talking if she ran off with some—” he cut himself off, huffing in aggravation once more. His mind was too fuzzy with alcohol to come up with a proper insult for Gendry, but if asked when he was sober, he’d have a list.

“Well, maybe not, but how would you know what really happened if you don’t want to try and communicate with her? Try to understand what her note meant?” Sam pressed, gesturing with his hands wildly. “ _ You  _ could reach out to her. Out of everyone, you could find her if you wished to.”

“I don’t wish to,” Jon replied simply, even if his heart screamed otherwise. But his heart brought him enough trouble as it was, so it was time to start listening to his head. “Here’s what happened. I was ready to do anything for this girl, I would kill for her, I would hurt anyone for her, I would d—” He bit his tongue.  _ I would die for her,  _ he thought bitterly. “I wanted to keep her safe. I went out of my way to find out who tried to poison her, I didn’t kill him because I wanted  _ her  _ to decide what to do with him. And then, I find out that this same person I’ve done all of this for has…ran off with a man I told her to stay away from.”

“Of course when you say it like  _ that  _ it sounds bad,” his friend said softly, “But it’s a lot more complicated, it’s not cut and dry.”

“No, it sounds bad because it is bad. You expect me to still chase her around Westeros?” Jon scoffed, asking a servant girl for a refill of his drink. They were on the balcony, the soft breeze of the night soothing his heated skin. Above them, the moon shone in a starless sky. “Daenerys made her choice. She’ll have to live with it now.”

Melisandre made it clear that it was up to Daenerys’ choosing. He could only show her what they could be together, he couldn’t force her to become what he wanted her to be. All the greatness he saw in Daenerys, it was all wasted potential in the end. If she would rather be with some worthless fool like Gendry than  _ him,  _ when he could give her everything, then she was not as wise as he’d believed.

_ Maybe they deserve each other,  _ he reflected angrily, taking two big gulps from the glass a servant handed him.

“From my perspective, her choosing to run away makes no sense,” Sam mumbled.

Jon felt his head throb.

“Whenever she spoke of you, I was certain she was also very…taken by you.”

“I don’t care, Sam,” the King groaned, realising he had to stop drinking soon before his head exploded, “I don’t care anymore.”

“You do,” Sam scoffed, “A few days ago, you would barely budge from her side when she was sick.”

“That was before I found out what she had in mind.” His pride was hurt,  _ he  _ was hurt. Just thinking about her brought him pain now.

“It doesn’t seem like a premeditated plan to me. Perhaps it was on the spot. A quick decision that she regrets—”

“Whether she regrets it or not, she still did it.” Aegon got up, a bit unstable on his feet. He scowled at his friend, who was well in his cups now, just as he was. But at least he was speaking sense. Sam was being too defensive on Daenerys’ part. If he was anyone else, he’d be dead by now. “She chose him.” The words were difficult to utter, like poison on his taste buds. Drunk or not, his anger and despair were still intact as he slurred the words, determinedly, “And she better stick with her choice. If they come back here, I will have both of them killed.”

* * *

He had no clue what to do with Varys any longer.

Daenerys was gone before he could tell her the truth, and a part of him blamed himself for not telling her sooner.  _ I just wanted to protect her.  _ But this was where protecting her got them. It seemed as though having good intentions didn’t matter—he should stick to his usual intentions of getting what he wanted, no matter whom or what had to be destroyed for it.

But Varys was still hiding things from him. And Aegon was determined to get to the bottom of it, whether Daenerys was still here or not.

When he went to see the eunuch, he was crouched in a corner of his cell, his head buried in his hands where he sat. If he heard the approaching footsteps, he gave no sign of it.

Jon was not feeling playful or patient anymore. He held the torch closer to him to get his attention. “Get up,” he ordered.

Varys sighed, finally lifting his head to look at him. His cheeks were hollowed out from the lack of eating, but Jon had no idea why he did not want to eat. Did he think he was being poisoned? The idea almost made the King laugh. Poison was not his preferred choice of weaponry, if he wanted Varys dead, he’d make it painful first.

“What do you want from me?” he asked, voice groggy and dry.

“Answers. You still never told me why you wanted Daenerys dead,” Jon spoke.

Varys played with the sleeves of his coat. “Why do you care?” he asked, “Last thing I heard was that she ran off with…Gendry, isn’t that right?”

Anger was quick to turn Jon’s blood hot and vision red, but he hid it easily, remaining calm. “You’re not a very smart man if you think I’m going to let you go after this,” he declared.

As much as the thought of reducing Varys to a battered and bleeding corpse was appealing, he knew that torture did not always have to be bloody to be effective. Varys was a cunning man, it was only fair that his punishment should be special.

Apprehension settled on Varys’ face when Aegon’s men brought a large container of water in his cell. It was big enough to submerge a person, and the captive man was not stupid. His eyes filled with fear as one guard came to stand behind him, forcing him up with the chains that held his hands together behind his back, forcing him closer to the basin.

The King did not bother joining them inside. He had a nice view outside the bars. Besides, he did not want to get wet. “I’ve cancelled all my meetings for this,” he informed him, “I’ll be here the whole day if you need me to. It’ll only get tougher for you though, not me.”

Varys glanced at the water unsurely.

“Tell me the truth,” Jon ordered gruffly, “ _ All of it.  _ And I promise you that I’ll give you a good death.”

He refused to answer.

The King let his eyes drift to the man behind him. One nod and his command was understood and executed. Varys’ face being pushed down in the large bucket and held there. The first few seconds were easy. Perhaps only uncomfortable due to the fact that it was  _ cold  _ water but otherwise, Varys remained as calm as one can be with their head under water. After that, though, bubbles were seen on the surface. Rising more rapidly with time. His legs began twitching, then thrashing. His hands began searching for something to grasp on and the guard holding him down was struggling to keep the fat spider tamed.

When gurgling sounds rose from his throat, Jon cleared his own. “Let him go.”

Varys gasped for air and choked on it. He was drenched from his shiny, bald head down to the folds of skin in his neck, his dark robe now soggy with water. Jon gave him a few seconds to recollect before insisting, “The truth.”

Varys lifted his head, as stubborn as ever.

Jon smiled slowly. And lifted a hand.

The second time was worse. And the time after that, and the one after that.

His resistance was dropping, as was his stamina. Varys’ hands flailed like a bird whose wings were clipped, plummeting to the ground. He was trying his best to recover each time, but his face was turning blue and his breathing was uneven. He began coughing like a consumptive man on his deathbed and soon, he was so weak that he tumbled down to the ground the moment he was dragged away from the water. The sight was pathetic.

“So cold,” he muttered as he hugged his wet body on the floor. He trembled like a leaf.

“You’re right,” Jon agreed with faux sympathy. “This temperature simply won’t do. Harren, get something warmer for our guest here.”

Varys looked up, tears in his eyes.

But when he saw the cylindrical container being filled with water so hot the smoke filled his entire jail cell, he began shaking his head in horror. “No,” he begged, his voice cracked and weak, “ _ No. _ ”

“If you wish to speak, do so with the words I want to hear. Otherwise, remain silent and take your punishment.”

“I will,” Varys gasped, “I will…tell you what you want.”

Aegon quirked a brow.

When he began telling him of a conspiracy against him, Jon was not surprised in the slightest. It made sense that Varys would want to betray him. After all, he had once been loyal to the man who’d usurped his Throne. But when he started speaking of Daenerys, Jon’s interest was piqued. “I know all about the prophecy and the visions you’ve had.” While Jon found that troubling, it was nothing compared to what he felt at what Varys admitted next: “I never trusted Daenerys. Even if she looked innocent when she first came here, I never trusted her.”

It was as if he was speaking to himself, a regretful look in his eyes.

“What are you talking about?” Jon asked soberly.

“Gendry,” he gritted out, “Gendry ruined everything because of her.”

“Speak clearly or I’ll burn your face off.”

A gulp and a nod. “Ever since Daenerys arrived at King's Landing, Gendry made it his mission to try and convince me and perhaps himself that she was not like you…like your family. He kept telling me that Daenerys had all the reasons in the world to hate you and the Targaryens. That she was good.” Varys sighed. “He wanted to protect her from you.”

“Gendry was with you this whole time,” Jon said flatly, a realisation that did not so much shock him but instead, made him more furious than before—if that was still a possibility.

“And he wanted Daenerys to be with us too,” Varys finally said.

Jon swallowed thickly. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

Varys gave a humourless laugh. “I’m on my knees, soaked and chained,” he snapped, “what do I have to lose? I never wanted to give up Gendry’s name to you, but he had no consideration for me when he ran off with her!”

“What do you mean by he wanted Daenerys to be with you? This whole time, she was betraying me?” He could not believe it. He would not.

“Yes and no,” Varys sighed. “She knew of our plans but never made a move to declare loyalty to the rebellion. It was clear that she was confused. She wanted to do the right thing, but she was also caught up in her…emotions about you.”

“She knew of your plans?”

“She knew we wanted you dead.” Varys met his eyes. “Ned Stark came here to finish what he started all those years ago. Daenerys knew about that, too. Before Gendry left with you to go North, he gave her an ultimatum. To choose on whose side she was, where her loyalties lay. Gendry was convinced she’d choose us. I, on the other hand, not so much. I knew of your relationship with her. It was obvious to me that she loved you and would not choose to kill you. So, when you were all gone, I did the best thing I could to ensure that our plans remained intact—I tried to get rid of her. It seemed like the perfect solution to all of my problems. No Daenerys, no prophecy to worry about, no one to stop us from getting to you, and I wouldn’t have to worry about Gendry messing everything up for this girl. It made sense in my head.

“I was promised that the poison would work. When it didn’t…all hell broke loose. My plan was to get away from here. I did not want to blame Gendry for my mistakes, so I never intended to tell you the truth. I had a boat ready and escape routes planned. But Gendry was selfish. He used  _ my  _ plan to run away. With her!” Varys shook his head to himself, “I was convinced that she would choose you…but I was wrong, it seems. She’s with him now, not you. Maybe Gendry was right all along to trust her.”

The King tried to listen, but his mind could not get past the fact that Daenerys knew about Varys’ plans, that she was considering joining them. While he was worried sick about her possibly dying when she was poisoned, she still had not made up her mind about whose side she was on.

And now she was not with him. She had chosen her side.

Unlike what he felt for Gendry and Varys, Jon was not angry about Daenerys. He was  _ hurt.  _ His heart felt heavy in his chest. It was a strange sensation. He decided that he hated the sentiment. Anger was better; it acted like fuel to make sure his enemies got what they deserved. But pain brought nothing but despair. Pain simply hurt. And there was nothing else that could be done about it.

He focused on his rage instead.

Jon gave a signal to the guard who stood behind Varys. The shivering man’s eyes grew wide. “I told you everything I know,” he said in a whisper, “If you are wondering why she has left with him, I have no idea. I know as much you do from now on. You promised that if I told you the truth—”

“I’m bad at keeping promises,” the Targaryen King said. “I want his face burned. But do not let him die.”

The last thing he heard before leaving the dungeons was the sharp cry Varys let out before the sound of water splashing took over.

It did not bring Jon the satisfaction he sought.

* * *

_ “I am going to kill you.” _

_ Her voice was calm, and so was her face. Had her eyes always been so violet? And her hair, was it always this shiny? Had he not seen her in so long that her beauty still took his breath away, like the first time? “Do it, then. What are you waiting for?” _

_ He was trying. His hand was wrapped around her pale throat and he squeezed. But she only stared at him and did not look uncomfortable. He was sweating with the effort, his heart thumping. He had to kill her. She betrayed him. She left him. She lied to him. She— _

_ “You can’t kill me,” Daenerys whispered. _

_ “I’ve killed hundreds, if not, thousands of people before. I don’t remember half of their names,” he told her shakily and increased the pressure. It wasn’t working. Why wasn’t it working? “How are you any different?” _

_ “You know how,” she said knowingly, “Because you love me.” _

_ “I don’t.” He practically choked the words out. _

_ He was killing her, yet, it felt like he was the one dying. _

_ “You do,” she told him with a smile. “You want me to come back to you. If I do, you’ll still take me back. Isn’t that right? Tell me. Say it. Tell me you want me to come back to you. That is all you truly desire.” _

_ She had wrapped her hands around his wrist, taken his palm off her throat. He was entranced by her mouth whispering these words to him, inching closer to his, her lips looking soft and inviting and…and. _

_ “I’m here now,” she added and wrapped her arms around his neck. Oh, he’d forgotten how right it felt to have her in his arms again—close to him, her heartbeat just underneath his. Her mouth brushed against his and he swallowed her words; they tasted like the lemon cakes she loved. “I’m with you now.” _

_ “Don’t leave me again,” he mumbled, aching to close the gap between them. _

_ And kiss her. Kiss her until he forgot all about what went wrong between them. It didn’t have to matter, not when she was here, in his arms— _

_ But he couldn’t kiss her. Just like he couldn’t kill her. Her lips were out of reach. _

_ And then her laughter rang in his ears. Not her usual, soft and sweet one. No, this one was cold. And mocking, almost. So unlike her. “You weak fool,” she scoffed, “I am not coming back to you. I never will.” _

_ He frowned. “Daenerys…” _

_ “I don’t love you. I never did. I never could. No one has ever loved you before, not even your parents. No one has ever cared for you. You’ve had no family—and you never will.” _

_ He stumbled back in the dark room they were in, staring at Daenerys’ unflinching, hard gaze. “Why are you doing this?” he asked. _

_ “I’m telling you the truth. You claim you only care about people fearing you, but you don’t. You want to be loved, don’t you?” _

_ “Stop it.” _

_ “I will never love you.” _

_ He gritted his teeth, wondering why her voice was everywhere at once, growing louder, fiercer. “I hate you.” _

He awoke suddenly, relief flooding him when he found that he was staring at the ceiling of his room, in the complete dark, and that Daenerys was not there. Not yelling those words at him.

He turned to his side, staring at the empty spot beside him.

He used to sleep better when she was here, too tired to go back to her room. She’d curl herself in a ball to sleep and he found it adorable, how small she was. But sometimes during the night, Daenerys would turn back to him and hug him instead, her face buried in his chest. She snored— _ a lot.  _ It was unbearable on some nights. It would not let him sleep but he could never find the courage to push her away from him, so he’d suffer through her loud snoring just so she would stay curled up against him, sleeping peacefully. He would wake up the following morning with her hair all over his face, some strands lingering on his white sheets long after she was gone.

For the first time in a very, very long time, the King felt a single tear roll down his cheek.

* * *

“There has been word from Highgarden.”

There was a lengthy pause after the words were uttered by Lord Royce. After the silence stretched on for a few uncomfortable seconds, Aegon lifted his eyes from where they were fixed on a point on the map to the man who had just spoken. The King lifted an eyebrow. The rest of his council looked just as curious. “Yes?” he pressed.

The dark-haired man shifted on his feet. “And, um, Olenna Tyrell is offering a compromise,” he declared, eyeing the scroll carefully.

Jon furrowed his brow. “A compromise?”

“For Loras. Her grandson.” Royce gazed at the King unsurely. “She…wants him free.”

A distasteful snort left the monarch’s lips. “And what could be more valuable than her grandson?”

“Her granddaughter.”

“Granddaughter or grandson,” Jon feigned a pensive hum. “I’ll stick with the boy,” he drily replied and went back to his map.

But Sam was not satisfied with his quick dismissal of the matter. He took the letter from the lord’s hand and scanned it for himself. “I don’t believe she is asking you to imprison her granddaughter, Your Grace,” Sam deduced.

“Then what?”

“She is offering…” Sam looked up, wide-eyed, “her hand in marriage.”

“Marriage?” Aegon repeated. And then— _ laughed.  _ “Olenna Tyrell wants me to marry her granddaughter in exchange for her grandson’s freedom?”

“It appears as such, yes,” Sam Tarly answered casually, “She speaks of how she is aware that you are worried about where her loyalties lie.  _ Let me prove to you once and for all that I wish to serve my King,  _ she writes.”

It wasn’t that Jon had never considered marriage. It simply was not something that seemed important to him. He did not believe he needed such an alliance, nor did he ever wish to settle for one woman when he could have any, and  _ many _ . In addition to that, it wasn’t as if he’d had many proposals in the past. Understandably enough, not many men were foolish or desperate enough to throw their daughters in his arms. Some were. But no such proposal ever caught Jon’s interest.

This, on the other hand….  _ Margaery. _

“I think it’d be a good idea,” Lord Royce uttered. “For someone in your current position. Especially after what happened with Robb Stark.”

The King’s dark eyes flickered to him. “And who asked about what you think?”

The man blinked, cheeks flushing. “I-I apologise, I only meant—”

“What  _ did  _ you mean? Someone in my position?”

The man’s throat bobbed visibly as he swallowed back his words. “I-well-someone…w-who has enemies.”

Sam sighed. “He’s right,” he said, and his friend turned his glare in his direction. Sam, however, didn’t cower like the rest of them. “The North hates you now. One thing that you surely do not lack is enemies. Political marriages make a lot of sense in such times. And it’s a good compromise, too. Loras is of no use to you.”

“What if there is a better option in the future?” Aegon inquired.

“Do you have any in mind now?” Sam retorted.

Before Jon’s mind could associate the word  _ marriage  _ with a particular person with silver hair and purple— _ no.  _ “No,” he answered.

“Aegon took multiple wives. If there are better options, who will stop you from exploring them?” Tarly smirked.

“No one,” Jon agreed in a murmur.

“It’s settled then?” Sam urged.

The King thought about it for a second. He had much to gain from this, and not a thing to lose. “Tell Olenna Tyrell that her King invites her to King’s Landing with her granddaughter.” He smiled. “Then I shall see if she is fit to be my wife.”

* * *

A moon later, they finally welcomed their guests to court.

Olenna Tyrell was everything Aegon had expected. The old, grouchy woman was as respectful as need be during the greetings, but the King knew all too well that her smiles hid all the suppressed hatred she had for him, roiling just beneath the surface. He could also tell that there was only one thing on her mind. Loras. “Where is he?” she asked, minutes after she’d gotten off her carriage. “Can I see my grandson?”

Jon clicked his tongue. “Please, my lady. There is no need for such a rush. We shall get to it eventually.”

Olenna’s troubled gaze was intent on him. Realising she had no choice but to listen to him, she forced herself to nod and weakly said, “Let me introduce you to Margaery.”

Aegon’s bad experience with guests made it so that he believed Margaery Tyrell would be like his cousin, Sansa—frightful and anxious to be in his presence. He could still recall the tears that streamed down the redhead’s face when he beheaded her father.

Margaery was  _ nothing  _ like what Aegon had imagined.

Confidence oozed from her as she stepped down from the wagon. She was a lovely sight on that cloudy afternoon, her long, curly caramel hair bouncing as a man helped her down. The skirts of her dress swirled around her, colourful and vibrant, a pleasing contrast to the dull colours her grandmother adorned herself in.  _ She  _ was a contrast to her grandmother, who looked pale and sick, cheeks hollowed out and eyes dim.

Margaery was smiling, eyes twinkling, a decidedly intricate flower crown resting on her head.

“Your Grace,” she said in wonder, slightly out of breath, cheeks tinted pink. “It is such an honour to  _ finally  _ meet you.”

Her emphasis on the word ‘finally’ made it sound like she’d been waiting for this. The glint in her eyes almost indicated she’d  _ dreamed  _ of this moment. Aegon glanced at Sam, who shared his stunned, bewildered expression.

Aegon could only offer a nod and a polite smile. As they walked, Margaery looped her arm with her grandmother’s, gushing about how gorgeous the city was.

“That was…,” Sam mumbled next to Jon as they marched a few steps ahead of their guests, “Unexpected.”

“She is strange,” Jon commented, frowning. She did not look terrified of him. And that annoyed Jon. He liked terrifying people.

“Some say the same about you. Who knows? Perhaps you’ve met your match.” Sarcasm coated his friend’s words.

“Let me show you to your rooms,” the King proposed once they were inside the walls of the castle, just an excuse to try and understand Margaery better. And hopefully, scare her a bit.

Margaery nodded enthusiastically. Olenna followed her but her granddaughter stopped her after a few steps. “You don’t have to come,” she said, smiling.

Jon watched as Olenna widened her eyes not-so-subtly and, under her breath, said something about how she was not going to leave Margaery alone with  _ him. _

Margaery rolled her eyes and whispered something back to her, in a much lower tone than her grandmother, so Jon could not hear what was said. Olenna Tyrell sighed in defeat and let go of her hand. Margaery turned to Jon and with a smile, easily took his arm instead and resumed their walk. He was surprised by the action, to say the least.

Margaery acted like this was a love match, something out of a song the poets wrote rather than a political compromise. She was weirdly  _ content  _ for a woman whose life was being exchanged for her older brother’s.

It was either an act or she was stupid. Either way, her behaviour intrigued him. So, as they walked, he said, “I’m assuming your grandmother did not wish to let you go with me alone.”

“She did not. But I think I can handle you,” Margaery replied casually and shrugged, “Besides, if we are to be married, how will she stick around to make sure I am safe? I must learn to take care of myself.”

Jon half-smiled at her words. “You believe you can handle me?” he asked. He wanted to add, do you know how many times your brother has begged me to kill him because he hates being here? But he did not wish to ruin the mood.

Margaery stopped walking and turned to face him. She was a beautiful woman, that much was undeniable, and her vibrant blue eyes twinkled when she spoke, no signs of fear in them. She was either very good at pretending and hiding her feelings or she truly was not afraid of him. “Let’s just say,” she murmured, “I like to play with fire.”

The King was taken aback by the suggestive phrase, even more so by her teasing smirk. She walked away, her blue dress flowing behind her, and there was only one thought that ran through his head:  _ this will be interesting.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this one. It's not one of my favourites but I'm very excited to be writing again. No Dany here, but our kween will be back soon, don't worry. Thanks to Queen_Lyanna as always for betaing <3\. If you like angst, you'll like the upcoming chapters. If you don't - well, I apologise in advance. 
> 
> I also hope you're all safe during these hard times. Good news is that working from home allows me to write a lot more and a lot faster now, so hopefully the next chapters shouldn't be too long. Don't forget to wash your hands (and then leave a comment hehe). Stay safe.


	12. Chapter 12

**xii. the red woman**

Daenerys reached Dragonstone on a particularly sunny day. It was hot outside and the seas were calm as they got off the boat. The saltiness of the air kissed her skin, the seagulls were screeching above her head, the gentle breeze caressing her flesh…she was home.

She crouched down almost instinctively, placing her palm on the sand. The thin grains slipped through her fingers, soft like silk. Soft like she recalled. She frowned. She’d dreamt of this moment for so long. This was meant to be a homecoming, yet, she felt eerily empty inside.

The voyage had not cleared up her doubts. If anything, it only served to inflict more confusion upon her. Was her decision too harsh? Should she have given Aegon a chance to explain himself? Why did she trust Gendry so blindly? What was the King doing right now, was he furious? He had to be. She knew him enough to know that. Had he already sent his men to get her—to _kill_ her?

If he did what Gendry said he did, though, then why should she care about what he felt right now? He had no rights to tear her away from her mother as he did. She should not feel an ounce of sympathy for someone like him. If her mother had succumbed to her illness already, she would hate him. She swore with every fibre of her being that she would.

If only her bloody heart would listen to her sometimes.

“Daenerys.”

She snapped out of it before her thoughts consumed her whole. Blinking up, she saw that Gendry was watching her, his expression troubled, “Yes?”

“You look pale,” Gendry remarked, gently touching her arm, “Are you alright?”

“I feel a bit sick,” she admitted, the churning in her stomach getting progressively worse.

Gendry nodded. “Perhaps you’re seasick. Let’s get you home, so you can rest.”

 _Home._ Her guts coiled.

“Yes,” she said slowly.

She was home.

Everything was going to be fine.

Gendry walked with her, staying close by her side. He must’ve noticed how quiet she grew on their journey up here, but he never questioned it. If he did, she would not have an answer. Was she regretting her decision? Perhaps. But it was too late to back down now. And her mother needed her. Gendry or Jon…none of that mattered, not if Rhaella was truly dying.

As they marched quietly, Daenerys noticed something move. It was just a flash of s _omething—_ a flicker that disappeared the moment she looked for it. “Did you see that?” she asked Gendry worriedly.

“See what?”

“That thing behind the rocks,” she said, squinting to see properly. But it was gone. “It looked like a person was watching us.”

Gendry quirked a brow at her, followed her gaze, then shook his head. “Dany, you must be tired.”

“No, no, it was something,” she pressed. She wasn’t blind. Nor delusional. She felt like she was being watched.

Gendry sighed, clearly not believing her. “How about we go see your mother first? It’s probably just the fact that you’re tired. And scared.”

She looked at him. “Scared?”

“You think he’ll come for us, don’t you?” Gendry asked.

Her mouth went dry. “I…” _Yes._ She did think that. It was foolish to run as she did, but she didn’t do it to escape Aegon, she did it so she could see his mother. The King could come back for her, he could hunt her down and punish her for what she did. It didn’t matter as long as she got to see Rhaella. Dany knew she would never forgive herself if her mother died without them getting to be with each other again, so she could not allow herself to regret her impulsiveness.

“I won’t let him hurt you, I promise,” Gendry said firmly, reaching up to touch her face.

Dany had no response.

All she could think of was that in leaving, she was probably the one who’d hurt him.

Despite everything, when Daenerys saw the familiar red door, she felt her heart swell with happiness. The last time she’d seen this place, she was scared that she would never be seeing it again. Overwhelmed with emotions, she ran to the door, knocking sharply on the surface. “Mother,” she called out, pressing her ear against the door, “It’s me. Daenerys.”

Her heart jumped to her throat, anxiety bubbling all over her as she waited. Waited for a sign that Rhaella was alive – that she was not too late.

The relief she felt when her mother did open the door was overwhelming. Daenerys let out a big breath, taking in Rhaella’s faint smile when she saw her. Teary-eyed, she hugged her mother and closed her eyes.

For a moment, everything was alright.

* * *

Daenerys gave her mother a stern look. “If you don’t eat, you’ll only grow weaker.”

The older woman cracked a little smile, her eyes intent on her daughter’s face.

“What?” Daenerys asked, bemused.

“I’ve just missed you so much. My life was senseless without you.” Rhaella coughed twice. “My death would’ve been senseless too if you weren’t here.”

Daenerys shook her head. “Don’t say that, ma. You’re not dying.” The healer told Daenerys that her mother’s sickness was grave, yes, but not uncurable. Now that she was here, Daenerys would not let anything happen to her mother. She could not allow herself to be discouraged by how frail the woman looked now; hollowed-out cheeks and eyes, her smiles always sad, her dress a size too large on her. Dany’s heart broke for her. While she was in King’s Landing playing princess with the King, her mother was unwell here, all alone. “Why did you never tell me?” she asked, rather harshly. “You always let me believe you were fine in your letters and only chose to let me know something was wrong when it got serious.”

“I did not wish to worry you. I knew you were going through worse things over there.”

Once more, Daenerys could only sit in silence, let herself be surrounded by guilt. She didn’t know how her mother would feel if she knew how things really were with Aegon…. They were definitely not worse than what she was thinking. Sure, there had been tough days. The first ones, especially. But how would Rhaella react if she knew how easily Dany had fallen in bed with the King, offering herself to him shamelessly.

“When you did not reply to my letter, I feared you were…you were…” Rhaella’s voice wavered as her eyes filled with tears.

While she was here sick and dying, Daenerys was spending most of her days _and_ nights in the arms of the man who’d kept this away from her. The thought was sour. “I was alright, I promise,” Daenerys said. She reached across the table and put her hand on top of her mother’s. “If I had known, I would’ve come quicker.”

“No, you wouldn’t. Aegon would not have let you,” Rhaella said, lip curled in anger, “I hate him more than I did before, now that I found out what he did to keep us apart.”

Daenerys said nothing as she stroked her mother’s knuckles with one hand and ate from the bowl with the other.

Gendry came to the doorway.

Dany cleared her throat. “I’ve made soup,” she informed him.

It was nightfall and they hadn’t eaten the whole day. Surely he was hungry. Yet he seemed disturbed, walking around aimlessly, clearly worried about how long it’d take for them to be found.

“Thank you,” he said with a smile and took the bowl she’d filled with soup for him. His eyes lingered on her face for a few moments before he walked out, comprehending that Daenerys needed time alone with Rhaella.

Daenerys watched as he left before dragging her eyes back to her mother’s. Her violet eyes were already on hers, a knowing look in them.

“So,” Rhaella drawled, “How long have you been in love with him?”

“Gendry?” Daenerys laughed quietly, surprised. “I’m not in love with him, he is only—”

“Not him,” her mother cut her off.

The smile on the silver-haired girl’s face disappeared. _She couldn’t mean…_

“You’re back home,” Rhaella said softly, “You’re with me, we’re finally reunited after so long. Yet, your mind is not even here.”

“Mother, that is not true.”

“You’re right. Perhaps it is not your mind that is absent but your heart. When your friend Gendry was telling me about how the King had hidden my letter from you, you said nothing. It’s like you don’t even hate him anymore. Not like you used to.”

Daenerys looked down, lowering her head in shame. "I do hate what he's done. I cannot believe he'd hide your sickness from me."

"You hate what he's done, not him," she pointed out.

"Mother," Daenerys said exasperatedly. "It doesn't matter."

“What has he done to you, my sweet?” Her mother inquired with a sigh, “That’s what Targaryens have always done best. Manipulate people for their own gain. Your father was no different. Aegon is even worse. He wished to tear us apart and have you all to himself, he gained such pleasure in torturing you.”

Daenerys bit her tongue and said nothing. She felt like a child again, being scolded for having broken a window or a vase. Except, this time, it was worse and untrue. "He didn't torture me," she said blankly.

“If I was with you, I would have protected you from him,” Rhaella said, sounding dejected.

“You can’t protect me from everything,” Daenerys found herself mumbling.

“I have protected you my whole life,” her mother said in return, offended, “I have sheltered you from all the bad things out there.”

“I know. You have _sheltered_ me. But just because I was unaware of them, doesn’t mean bad things were not happening.” Daenerys pushed away from her plate. She no longer felt hungry. “Aegon has…shown me things I never would’ve known if I stayed here." Her mind went back to the night she'd put her hand through fire, and she felt _nothing._ She didn't burn. There was something special about her, something her mother would force her to run from and something that Aegon wished to bring out of her. "Things about our family that—”

“ _Our_ family?” Rhaella sneered.

Daenerys swallowed. She had forgotten how much her mother despised calling anyone but the two of them family. “I only meant…”

“Spare me,” she snapped, “is he your family now? Do you want to go back to him?”

Daenerys gave her mother an incredulous look, not understanding the sudden accusatory tone she'd taken to speak with her. “I’m here with you,” she said.

“And you’re never going back there,” Rhaella stated firmly.

“And if he comes back to find me?” Daenerys scoffed.

“You sound like you almost _want_ him to.” She narrowed her eyes suspiciously at her daughter, lips pressed in a thin line. “Did you enjoy being his prisoner?”

“He never treated me like one.” _Gods, stop it._ She did not mean to sound like she was defending him or was on his side, but her mother was being insufferable. “I felt freer there than I ever did here.”

There. She said it. The truth she’d held back for so many months now. When she saw the hurt expression on her mother’s face, she wished to take it back, though. Even if it was the truth, she did not wish to make Rhaella upset. She only meant to express how she felt like she could express herself better when they were away from each other, when her mother was not there to shield her from the world.

“What has he done to my daughter?” Rhaella asked again, raising her voice. “You’re choosing him over your sick mother!”

“Stop that,” Daenerys hissed, standing up. “You’re causing a scene and Gendry will wonder what is happening.” On a calmer but determined note, she added, “I will never _choose_ someone over you. You’re my mother, The moment I heard about your state, I left everything to come here.”

Rhaella frantically grasped her wrist, her eyes pleading. “Then promise me you’ll never leave me again,” she begged, “You will not go back to him.”

Daenerys stared at her mother, wide-eyed and speechless. Of course, she did not want to leave Rhaella again, especially not when she was unwell. And she wouldn't, not until her mother was better. But the thought of never seeing Aegon again was just as nauseating. She needed answers to the questions that she never got the chance to ask. They left on an unfinished note. The idea of them never meeting again was unsettling to Daenerys, for some reasons. He meant something to her, both in a good and bad way. He was under her skin.

Her silence made the situation worse. Her mother visibly tensed up, eyes darkening. “You _are_ in love with him.” She took a pause before slowly asking, “How…how much of yourself have you given to him?”

Daenerys closed her eyes and turned her head away from her. _Everything,_ she would have to admit. What part of her did he not claim? Her virtue, her innocence, her mind. Perhaps even her heart. He had forged someone new out of the person she used to be, and she had no idea he’d done that, not until now. Until they were separated, and she felt as though a part of her was gone.

"We can't speak about this now."

"Yes, we can."

“I’m sorry,” Daenerys whispered, the only answer she could offer.

“Leave,” Rhaella uttered in a cold and detached fashion. “I do not want to see your face right now, Daenerys.”

The words stung. She took a step back like she was physically assaulted. In Rhaella’s eyes, Daenerys only saw disappointment. There was so much of it that it was unbearable to keep staring at her. With her shoulders slumped, she left and went to her room.

* * *

That night, sleep was the last thing on her mind. She sat by the window in her room—her old room, or was it her room again now, she couldn’t tell—and stared outside, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts. She had expected Rhaella’s anger and disappointment but she underestimated how much it would hurt.

As Dany began to lose herself in her sad thoughts, she swore she felt that shadow looming by again. The sensation of being watched. Outside, it was too dark to tell. Her insides clenched. Perhaps Gendry was right, she was simply paranoid.

She entertained the thought of Aegon showing up here. But it wasn’t fright that she felt at the aspect. She felt….

Three knocks at the door startled her. Huffing out a breath, she tore her gaze from the window and turned to the wooden door. “Gendry?” she guessed.

“Yes,” his muffled voice answered.

Dany exhaled quietly. “The door’s unlocked,” she offered.

His eyes were sympathetic when he entered. “I thought I heard you and mother argue.”

Daenerys shook her head. “I’m sorry you had to hear that.”

“She loves you a lot.”

“She is my mother.”

“I think she is simply worried about you, about what you may have endured. Which is understandable.”

“Gendry, please…you don’t know her. Don’t pretend that you do.” Realising how cold that sounded, she was quick to rectify, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know,” he said softly.

“It’s just that…she’s always tried to protect me. And in doing so, she never seems to care about what I want.”

Gendry approached her, taking a seat next to her. “I’m just tired. I want to do the right thing, but I’ve reached a point where I don’t know what the right thing is anymore.”

“It’s going to be alright,” Gendry said and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

Daenerys leaned into his touch, craving someone to hold onto.

But when he tipped her chin and pressed his lips against hers, she froze, shoving him away.

“What are you doing?” Daenerys asked, getting up as fast as she could. On her lips, she could taste wine.

“I thought…”

“You thought what?” she snapped, this time uncaring for her rude tone.

He gave her a puzzled look. “Daenerys, I thought I made my feelings about you clear.”

“Well, now, they’re abundantly clear.”

“I thought you’d feel the same. Ever since I saw you, all I wanted to do was protect you and—”

Daenerys huffed. “Why does everyone keep saying they want to protect me? Gendry, I love you. I really do.” She paused. “But not like this.”

Gendry only cared about the words that came after ‘but’, his eyes darkening in anger. “So your mother was right? You’re in love with him?”

“This has nothing to do with—”

“It has everything to do with him!”

Daenerys blinked at his outburst, taken aback. This wasn’t a demeanour she’d seen often in Gendry. “You’re drunk,” she stated, offering him a way out of this before things got out of control.

Gendry didn’t want a way out, though.

He grabbed her arm, rather unkindly. “Varys was right too.” He spat the words at her face. “You love him, after everything he put you through? Did he fuck you already?”

“Let me go,” she demanded, twisting her arm out of his iron grip.

“Were you sharing his bed, is that how you were his prisoner? Gods I was so stupid. So blind.” With his free hand, he gestured about wildly, “I did all of _this_ for you. For us.”

“You did what?” she asked.

He gave her a blank look.

Irritated, Daenerys used every drop of force she had left to free her arm. “I swear if you touch me again, I will kill you,” she seethed at him.

She surprised herself with the words.

* * *

If Daenerys got her stubbornness from someone, it was Rhaella.

Days passed without them uttering a word to each other. Daenerys made food for them, cleaned up the house, helped her mother clean herself up, all while the latter acted like she was invisible. A ghost. Daenerys knew she should simply swallow her pride and talk to her, but she found herself unwilling to do so.

Ironically enough, Gendry and Rhaella seemed to get along better than they did with her, both of whom were cold to the silver-haired princess who found that she felt no remorse for the things she’d said or done.

The silence would soon come to an end, however, when one day Daenerys was cleaning the dishes after they’d broken their fast after sunrise.

Daenerys closed the tap when Gendry appeared next to her. She kept her gaze on a plate, refusing to meet his eyes. She had not been able to look at him since that night.

“Word came from King’s Landing.”

If she was still holding the plate, Dany was certain she would’ve dropped it to the ground. She could not feign disinterest, so she did not bother concealing her shock. Head whipping in his direction, she asked, “What is it?”

Yes, admittedly, she _was_ curious about Aegon’s lack of interest in where she was. She thought that by the second day, he’d have an army looking for her around Westeros. No, she didn’t _hope_ for that, but she considered it a very valid possibility. She thought he’d make his anger known. Instead, she received…nothing. It was as if he did not even notice she’d left at all. Or if he did, he didn't care to do anything about it.

Gendry just frowned and kept quiet.

“What is it?” Daenerys repeated. “Is he threatening us?”

“No,” he answered and snorted distastefully, “and I doubt he’d use a letter to threaten us. This isn’t just for us…this was sent all across Westeros.” Slowly, he brought out the scroll with the Targaryen sigil. “Take a look for yourself.”

Daenerys did quick work to dry her hands on her dress before snatching the letter from his hands. Her eyes slid over the words, skipping unimportant ones, trying to digest as much information as possible. Her eyes grew wide. “He’s…getting married?” she muttered. Befuddled, she reread every word. More carefully now. This made no sense.

 _Margaery Tyrell._ Wasn’t her brother his prisoner? Was he going to take a prisoner wife as well? Daenerys had so many questions, but the most important one was why she felt like she was going to throw up.

Gendry took it from her hands and Dany stood there, frozen, still confused.

“Looks like he’s taking your departure pretty well,” Gendry drawled, a hint of mockery and disdain in his tone before he walked off.

Daenerys blinked out of the daze.

 _I don’t care,_ she thought to herself. Turning back around, she went to prepare her mother’s soup, adding the medicinal herbs to it. _I don’t care._

Her mother had the parchment in hand when Daenerys went to her. She looked up at her daughter, lips pressed in a thin line. “You seem upset,” she commented.

Dany clenched her teeth. The first words she spoke to her in days, and it was to taunt her. “I am not,” Daenerys spoke up, using the spoon to mix the soup.

“Oh, but you are. Are you sad that he hasn’t come looking for you?”

“Mother.”

“Or that he found someone else?”

Daenerys glared at Rhaella. “I am not upset about either of those things,” she stated calmly.

“To think that you’ve ruined yourself for someone like him,” her mother muttered under her breath, disgust clear in her voice.

It was too much for Dany. “Please finish the soup,” she told her before hastily making her way out of the room to get some air.

* * *

It wasn’t before long that Daenerys realised she was not mistaken.

She was being followed. Preyed upon.

The eyes that followed her were haunting, owned by a person who had long, dark red hair. Daenerys saw the shifting shadow again when she was taking a walk outside to clear her head, and it was a time too many. With Rhaella and Gendry angry at her, she was fed up. She followed the cloaked person, ran after them and ordered them to stop. “I see you! Everywhere, I see _you_ ,” she yelled at them, as the pair neared the shores.

The figure stopped. A gentle breeze blew off the hood from their head and she saw it again. The red hair. It was a scary colour, it reminded the silver-haired girl of blood and terror. The person didn’t turn around. “What do you want?” Dany asked, proud of the strength injected in her voice. She balled her fists at her sides. “Did the King send you here to assassinate me?”

Silence followed her words.

Then, a soft laugh.

A _woman_ ’s laughter.

“Oh, so is that it?” the figure asked. Clearly a woman. “You’ve run off and now he’s sending assassins after you? Tsk, tsk, tsk. Forgive me, R’hllor, I’ve failed you with these two.”

“What?” Daenerys asked, brows furrowed in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

Dany gasped, taking an abrupt step back when the person turned around, revealing a beautiful woman. She had sharp, piercing eyes and lips the colour of her hair. Her necklace was captivating, but so was she. “I have done _everything_ in my power to get you two together…everything, and you’re ruining it all.”

“Me? What am I ruining?”

“Everything,” she repeated definitively.

“Speak clearly,” Daenerys requested, unnerved.

“I brought fire and blood together, as I was always supposed to. I did my part. You must do yours. You mustn’t run from your destiny, from _him._ ”

“If you’re speaking of the King, I have no interest in going back to him,” Daenerys declared. Loud and clear, forcing herself to believe those words.

“Misunderstandings, pride, _stupidity…_ ” She rolled her eyes, “Such mundane things keeping you two apart. You must go back to him. You don’t belong here.”

“This is my home.”

The red-haired woman crossed the distance between them, and even if she was wary, Daenerys didn’t move. She couldn’t. A small gasp left her lips when the woman traced a finger down her cheek, her intense eyes mapping her face. “You don’t believe those words,” she murmured, “Your place is with Aegon. Your home is there.”

“You have the wrong person,” Daenerys found herself saying. She wished to add, _he is getting married. Clearly, his betrothed should be hearing those words—not me._

“R’hllor makes no mistakes. I have not come all the way to you just to speak a few words and leave, Daenerys.”

Dany gulped. “Who are you? And, why are you here?”

“Melisandre of Ashai,” the woman said, smiling. “And I have something of great importance for you.”


	13. Chapter 13

**xiii. come back to me**

“Follow me.”

Perhaps a wise person would not choose to follow a stranger into a cave, especially if that stranger had been stalking you for the past few days. So, perhaps Daenerys was not very wise. But there was _something_ about her…. Daenerys kept her guards up, ready to flee at any moment, and she was very wary of Melisandre but still, she followed her. Let her lead her into the dark, the gentle rock of waves in the ocean behind them a backdrop the further they went into the caves.

“Where are we?” Daenerys questioned softly. “Where are you taking me?”

She did not answer. At last, she lit up a torch—and Daenerys could swear the fire came out of nowhere—and it illuminated her red hair, which Daenerys continued to focus on as they walked.

“There,” Melisandre whispered and came to a stop.

Daenerys hugged her arms around herself. It was hot in Dragonstone but she’d never been to these caves before, and here, there was an odd chill in the air. A strange kind of cold that seemed to defy the otherwise high temperature. 

Suddenly, the red-haired woman turned to her. “Come see,” she murmured, voice enticing.

Daenerys did not know what to expect. Hesitantly, she moved forward in her direction but stopped the moment she saw…

She saw—

“Are these…?” The words had trouble coming out of her mouth, but her eyes grew wide in wonder, even if her mind knew there was _no_ way this was real or slightly possible.

“Touch them.” Melisandre’s voice faded now, something that hardly mattered in the moment, as Daenerys kept her eyes on the three round objects placed in front of her.

They could _not_ be dragon eggs.

Targaryens were known to have ridden dragons but that had happened centuries ago, so long and forgotten in history that some believed it to be a myth.

These _things_ in front of her were most likely rocks. Rare, beautiful rocks that were textured exactly how dragon eggs were described—one was golden, one was green and the last pure black. Like the skies at night, moonless and silent.

Her hand was reaching out, an unwitting move on her part, everything around her slowing to a stop. With heightened senses, Daenerys’ fingertips brushed against the black one. A feather-like stroke over the hardened, stone-like surface and in response, sizzle of current burned through her veins.

She retracted her hand, breathing heavily.

Blinking rapidly, she turned back to Melisandre who now looked intrigued by her reaction. “What did you feel?” she asked, as if in a daze.

When Daenerys failed to answer, still shaken up, Melisandre grasped at her arms and shook her. “Tell me,” she commanded.

The princess shoved her away. “Stop,” she gasped, “Nothing. I felt nothing.”

Melisandre’s eyes sparkled. “Liar,” she called her out. “You did feel it.”

“You’re crazy,” Daenerys spat out, a half-lie. She did feel something, but on the other hand,this woman was insane. Perhaps she was just too tired, and this gloomy place was having strange effects on her body so she thought she felt something. It did not mean anything. “Leave me alone.”

“Take them with you.”

“Take them where?”

“Everywhere you go. Until you go back to _him._ Together, you will be able to bring back dragons into this world.” 

Daenerys found herself laughing. It was a short, humourless chuckle. “Do you hear yourself?” she asked, “You truly believe these are dragons? Large, fire-breathing beasts that destroyed civilisations? Animals which were full of magic and other impossible things that no longer exist?”

“If they existed once, they can again. Everything’s still possible. But you are the last chance to make it happen. You and King Aegon, the last Targaryens, the last of a bloodline that was pure magic, fire and blood,” Melisandre said, a fierceness in her voice that both scared and thrilled Daenerys.

“You’re the crazy woman who fed him those lies,” Daenerys suddenly blurted in realisation. “Aegon…the reason he took me away. He always said he believed I was destined for _greater things,_ is this part of that folly?”

“It’s no folly. You know what you felt just now. And yes, he was right about that. You need to believe him.”

“I’m not what you think. Even if these are dragon eggs, I can’t bring dragons into this world.” Daenerys scoffed. “All I am is Daenerys. Exiled princess and now, a disappointment to my mother. Right now, I’m going to go back to her and hope I can make up for my mistakes.”

“Take the eggs with you,” Melisandre begged, frantic now. “Even if you do not believe what I say, take them.”

Daenerys began shaking her head.

“Perhaps they are just silly rocks.” Her red lips curled, “But they’re pretty, are they not? What harm could it do to keep them with you?”

The younger woman’s eyes were drawn to the three eggs, or rocks, again. She took a moment to decide but ultimately felt compelled to agree. What harm could it do after all? Even if they were not real, they could be sold. Perhaps worth a lot.

She carried the large box out, and Melisandre trailed behind like her shadow. “You are wrong. You were never _just_ an ordinary woman,” she said, the words quiet but as sharp as the diamonds on her neck, “You will never be. And you don’t belong in this lonely island. Go back to King’s Landing, where your destiny awaits you.”

* * *

“I do not understand women,” the King decided one afternoon.

“You’re telling _me,_ ” Sam sighed, “Five years of marriage, my friend, and I still cannot anticipate what to expect next with Gilly.”

But Aegon was not speaking of the ups and downs of marriage, rather of the seemingly intricate new woman at court. Margaery Tyrell became more of a mystery the longer she stayed.

He’d taken her to see her brother—whom he’d imprisoned and tortured—in an attempt to shake that smirk off of her face once and for all.

Loras was bound and bruised, and his eyes had brightened up for the first time in over five moons at the sight of his sister.

Margaery went to hug him through the bars, but was only able to reach out for him and pat him on the shoulders. A tear slipped down her lovely face but as her brother begged for her to find a way to get him out of there, she merely dropped her hands and said, “I can only follow my King’s orders.”

As they walked away, Aegon asked, “Do you hate me yet?”

She took a moment to answer. Ever so cunning and calculating in her every move, every flirtatious smile, every uttered word. “It’s better to be a prisoner than dead,” she finally said, her voice calm and collected.

He frowned.

When she saw Varys down in the cells, his face disfigured and burned off as he rot in a corner on the cold floor, she asked, “What happened to him?”

“He was imprisoned for questioning.”

“And he didn’t give you what you wanted?”

“He did,” Aegon admitted, “I just wished to torture him.”

Margaery snorted but remained quiet.

Either she was a sadist, or she was good at pretending.

“Marriage then,” Sam concluded as his friend told him about the strange young woman from Highgarden.

The King looked out the window at his peaceful kingdom. The idea bounced in his head as the wheels of his brain worked around it. Marriage made sense. It was a good political match. It ensured him more allies in the wars to come. And he knew there _was_ a war coming. The North would not forget easy, and he killed their King in cold blood.

“I can go over the benefits of marrying Margaery again if you’d like,” Sam began and cleared his throat, “She has been here for a month now. Her brother has been uselessly dying in the cells for almost a year now. You know—”

“I know the benefits of marrying her,” Aegon cut him off, not needing any more convincing.

Then what _did_ he need?

In his mind, he had the answer.

He glanced down at his injured hand, the wound closing up now, and all he could remember was Daenerys’ soft, comforting touches the night he’d come back from the North. He knew the moment that wound would heal, he would no longer have a physical memory of her.

Her scent had begun to fade from his pillows and bed now, and her face was growing blurry in his head. Soon, he would forget her altogether. All that would be left would be the hatred he’d harboured for her after finding out she had been aware of Varys and Gendry’s plans. 

He had been mesmerised by the emotions in her amethyst eyes the night he’d gotten injured by Robb Stark’s wolf, among them was one he’d rarely seen in people around him; _care._ How could he have believed she cared for him as much as he did for her? Where was she now, to stop him from marrying someone else?

“Jon,” Sam said slowly. A tone he only used when they were alone and talking as _friends_ rather than as a King and his advisor. “If this is about her…”

“It isn’t.” His voice was cold and detached as he looked back up again. “You’re right. A political marriage makes sense.”

Sam was evidently relieved and happy he accepted his proposal.

“One thing, though. I want everyone to know,” Aegon suddenly decided.

“About your betrothal?”

“Yes. Send a raven to all the lords and ladies of Westeros,” he instructed, before adding, “And to Dragonstone as well.”

Sam stayed quiet, perhaps realising his intentions.

The King did not care if that was a petty move on his part. Daenerys had hurt him, bruised his ego and fuelled his anger like no enemy had in his entire life.

And perhaps he would never be able to kill that girl.

But he would make sure to torment her.

As she did him.

* * *

Hours turned into days in Dragonstone and in between breaks from caring for her ailed mother, Daenerys found herself growing rather obsessed with the three supposed eggs. Melisandre was right. She was lying when she said she felt nothing whenever she touched them. There was a pull between them and Dany. An invisible string tying them all together. The farther she went from them, the tauter the string grew, threatening to break. When she was near the eggs, the force seemed appeased, and she felt relaxed as well.

And whenever she touched them, she felt that _thing_ again. A bolt of energy, perhaps, or something else. It was embedded in her veins. She scraped her short fingernails upon the surface of the green one, feeling it pulse with life. “What _are_ you?” she whispered to the eggs, curious and on edge. Was this somehow related to that power she had, the inability to be burned? Was this a Targaryen thing? She knew she could not ask her sick mother to touch them and tell her what she felt, Rhaella would find her crazier than she already did. But she knew someone who would believe her— _Aegon._

Unlike everyone else in her life, he never made her feel like an outlier. He would listen to her, understand her and perhaps, he would feel it too.

But none of that mattered now.

He most likely hated her.

And she hated him, too, for not having told her about her mother. She would never forgive him for that. Would she?

One night, she spent over an hour sitting in front of the box. Feeling them, touching them, pressing her ear against the eggs to see if she could hear something. After her fruitless efforts to understand them, she went to sleep, only to be awaken a few moments later.

She was up, dressed in a red dress and standing in a very, very dark room.

In front of her, the King stood as well.

Oh, it had been so long since she’d looked upon his face. She wondered if his skin was still hot to the touch, if his mouth would still feel like honey and the sweetest of sins upon hers. She shook her head from these thoughts.

“Is this a dream?” she asked—to whom, she could not tell. He did not seem to know more than her, alone with each other in this pitch-black room.

“More like a nightmare,” he replied, voice as smooth and low as she remembered. So familiar it made her ache. “You appear in all of them.”

”Your dreams?”

“No, my nightmares.”

“Why did you do it?” she asked, because if they were to never see each other again, perhaps her dream could offer her the closure she required. “Why did you not tell me my mother’s sick?”

“What—what in the _Seven Hells_ are you talking about?” he’d growled at her, angrier than she’d ever seen him. There was a vein popping in his neck, as if it was taking every ounce of his willpower not to grab onto her and—what, kill her?

“Do not pretend you’re unaware of what I’m talking about! I gave up everything for you,” she continued, tired, “And I just wanted honesty in return.”

His dark eyes flashed. _Oh._ She took a step back, suddenly afraid of what she’d unleashed with those words. He stalked up to her and she was but a helpless lamb in this dark place, preyed upon by the big, bad dragon. “ _Honesty_.” He whispered the word so harshly it felt like a whip across her skin, a whip dipped in venom. “Rich coming from you.”

She had no idea what he meant. Surely, this was a dream and meant nothing more than that, a fragment of her agitated imagination, but he seemed too real. The scar on his eye, the way his lips moved to accentuate every angry word he spat at her, the heat from his body as he closed in on her.

“I wish,” he said, voice trembling with barely restraint fury, “I had killed you the moment I saw you.”

“Maybe you should’ve,” she said in return, equally as mad as he was. If he’d killed her, things would have been simpler. If he had killed her, she would not be missing him right then, she would not feel so empty inside without him, he would not have ruined her for everyone else.

Because Daenerys knew that no matter where their lives would go from then on, Aegon would forever be under her skin—in her blood. A parasite eating her up from the inside, leaving nothing but sweet destruction in its wake.

“I don’t understand what your letter meant,” he told her, coming closer still. “I have no idea what you are accusing me of, Daenerys. All I know is that you betrayed me for _him_.”

“I did not betray you—”

“Really? Who are you with right now, Daenerys? Me or him?”

_It’s not that simple._ Frustrated, she said, “I wish I was with you.”

“Then why aren’t you?” he yelled at her. 

“Because of what _you_ did!” she shouted right back.

He was breathing heavily, pupils blown. “You know what I do to those who betray me. Or even think about doing it.” 

She gulped. Yes, she knew.

“We both need answers,” she realised. They left too much unsaid, too many scars open and still bleeding.

“There’s only one way that we’ll obtain them,” he said, mouth curving sinisterly, “Come back to me.” The words were whispered against her lips, his eyes darting across her face intently.

The way he said it made her heart clench. Like he meant it beyond any double meaning—like he just wanted her back. “How do I know you won’t kill me the moment I see you?” she asked softly.

“I should,” he murmured and reached up with his right hand, a short gasp leaving her parted lips as he wrapped his large palm around her throat and squeezed. Even in her dreams, Daenerys felt his touch—it was electric, burning, _real._ “But if I wanted to kill you, Daenerys, nothing would’ve stopped me. No matter how many oceans were between us.” With that, he lowered his mouth to hers and her eyes began to flutter close. 

“Daenerys,” he was then saying, his eyes growing worried, “Daenerys.” The voice changed, sounding more frantic now. It wasn’t even his voice.

She awoke with a loud gasp, her chest drenched in sweat. At the foot of her bed stood Gendry, hair dishevelled.

“Yes?” she asked, heart beating in her throat.

“It’s your mother,” he said gently.

And she knew what was going to happen.

* * *

Rhaella had a dying wish.

As she lay in pain and discomfort, she’d grabbed onto Daenerys’ hand and ordered her to stop trying to delay the inevitable. “I see the light,” she whispered, a gentle sigh slipping from her dry lips, “It’s calling out to me.”

Tears streamed down her daughter’s face. “The physicians said—”

“To hells with what anyone said,” Rhaella muttered. “It’s just you and me. Like always.”

“Like always,” Daenerys promised, pressing a kiss to her mother’s palm. It was getting cold. She rubbed both of her hands atop hers, a desperate attempt to ignite life back into her, but she knew as well as Rhaella did that it was too late. “I’m sorry,” she spoke sadly, “I’m sorry we spent our last days together bickering.”

Rhaella cracked a tired smile. “Promise me something, dear.”

Daenerys could not speak, so she nodded.

“Don’t give him what he wants,” Rhaella croaked out, “You’re a good person.”

She died with her eyes open.

* * *

“She was doing fine,” Daenerys muttered to herself, “Her health was improving, not deteriorating.”

Gendry was quick to provide reassurance to her troubled mind. “It wasn’t your fault.” They were in her room, the funeral done and over with, and now they had to figure out what they would do. “I’m sorry about…everything. I yelled at you because I was mad you didn’t feel the same way about me. It was stupid of me to do so.”

“Thank you for apologising,” Daenerys said and offered him a glass of water. “Here, you must be thirsty.”

She watched his throat bob as he swallowed the liquid. Satisfied, she got up and said, “I’m going back.”

When realisation struck Gendry, a scowl appeared on his face. “Going back where?”

“King’s Landing.”

“Are you—are you serious?” He looked appalled she’d even come up with such an idea.

“I am,” she replied, chin up. “I need answers.”

“Answers to what?”

“So many things,” she breathed out. The truth, above all. About everything—from her mother’s sickness to these dragon eggs. Melisandre was correct. She was not going to find anything here, on this island. She had to go back. A part of her still belonged in Dragonstone, but that part died with her mother. She had nothing left here.

“You don’t need answers, Daenerys. Especially not from the King. He will not give you the truth.” Gendry sounded panicked suddenly, grasping at every little thing to get her to reconsider. “We can start anew. You and I. Far from him and everyone else. We can travel and be _free_.”

“I can’t be free,” she whispered to him. “Not until I know all I need to know.”

She was tied to Aegon. It was something Gendry would not comprehend—no one would. Not even her. But she _was._ She could run as much as she wished but he owned every part of her, from her mind to her body and, worst of all, her heart.

“Don’t do this, please, _Dany_.” Desperation cut through his voice but as he stood up to grab her arms, Gendry faltered and reached up to touch his head. “The…room’s…spinning,” he said curiously and fell back down on the bed.

“I’m sorry,” she said, meaning it. “Please, don’t follow me. He _will_ kill you.”

Gendry slurred the words out, “How…how do you know he won’t kill you?”

“I can’t explain it,” she replied honestly. “I’m sorry, Gendry,” she repeated. “I hope you’ll learn to love someone else. Someone better than me.”

* * *

_That dream had been so real._

Aegon dared not speak a word of it to anyone, but every single day, he thought of it. Daenerys had been right there, as petite and beautiful as he knew her to be, and he felt her all around him. 

She had been close enough to kiss.

She had been close enough to kill.

His wedding was in one moon.

That dream had happened over three moons ago.

Was it a fool’s hope to still believe she’d come to seek the answers she wanted? To give him the answers he sought?

 _She must pay for all she did. She does not deserve a second chance. You need to kill her,_ part of his mind said. It was the cruel King in him. The one who had maintained his reign with blood and power, uncaring for others.

But this was Daenerys. He was weak for her. An idiot. She had him wrapped around her finger, and she did not even know it. 

Varys was a fool to want her dead. 

If they wanted to kill him, Daenerys would have been perfect to do the job. 

He wanted to hate her to the point of murdering her, but he could not stop thinking of the dream. Of how sad she appeared, how she spoke of her mother. Clearly, Daenerys believed he did something he did not do. And if she came back, gods, they could clear this whole thing up, she could be his again—

 _You’re a bloody fool. It was_ your _dream, she is not coming back._

In the meantime, King’s Landing buzzed with lively activities, awaiting the grand ceremony.

Speaking of which, Margaery came to him this morning with a grin on her face. “I think we should go out in the city today,” she said, her tone a drop too cheerful for his liking.

The Targaryen King was at his desk, lost in his Daenerys thoughts. That was all he did anymore. Think about her, wonder about her. He hummed in answer, quirking a brow at his future wife. “Why?”

“To meet the people.”

“No,” he answered flatly. He did not wish to.

“But I believe it is very important to…” And there she was, rambling off as she often did.

Aegon realised one thing about Margaery during her stay in his home: she liked having things her way. She’d charmed her way through the hearts of most the lords and ladies here, with her pretty smiles and sweet words.

But her _over_ -sweetness bothered him. It annoyed him, frankly, and Aegon liked _not_ being annoyed.

“I said no,” he raised his voice, slicing through her small one.

Margaery still maintained her smile. “But—”

He shot out of his chair, having had enough of her. “I don’t think you know me very well, Margaery,” he said slowly as he rounded the table, taking his dagger as he went to her. He watched her blue eyes drift to the weapon, a noticeable shift in demeanour. _Ah, finally. The fright I wished to see._ “When I say something, it is usually a statement. Not a question. I do not like being questioned, much less on repeated occasions.”

She visibly gulped, her playful smile morphing into a hesitant one.

“I don’t know what you’re playing,” he continued, until he was a step away from her, “And I don’t know how long you plan to maintain this charade up for. Your grandmother thinks of you as nothing more but a bargain. She is ready to throw you to the dragons just so she can have her precious grandson back.” He paused to make sure she understood every word, “Your life is not worth much to her. So, imagine how little it’s worth to me.” He lifted the dagger, so the pointy tip touched her chin and watched as her pink lower lip trembled. A smirk curled at his lips. “Next time I tell you something, you say, ‘Yes, Your Grace’ and you leave. Have I made myself clear?”

The sweet, always-smiling Tyrell girl’s face blanched. “Yes…Your Grace,” she mumbled.

“See, you’re a fast learner,” he cooed to her before pocketing the knife. “Go, now.”

After she left, Aegon sat back down and sighed to himself.

His peace was yet again disturbed by another set of knocks.

Jaw set, he asked what the matter was. If this was Margaery once more, he was afraid there would be a murder instead of a marriage between them.

It wasn’t, though.

This time, Sam Tarly was the one knocking. “Daenerys,” he said, and the King bolted up, eyes wide at just the mention of her name. Sam looked confused and sceptical, as if he could not believe what he was saying. Swallowing, he announced, “She’s back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wellll, that certainly took a hell lot longer than I planned. 
> 
> I'm sorry! I could give you a list of excuses but I doubt anyone cares. Long story short, your girl caught the Rona. I'm not dead, so there's THAT. But it was a shitty experience, so I encourage all of you to wear your masks unlike most people in my country. I'm better now but I was sick for over three weeks and you'd think that'd mean I could lay in bed all day and write but nope, I was too ill to do anything. 
> 
> That being said, I hope you guys are still here. And still care about this story. There are just a few chapters left and even if this took forever, I never intended to give up on this story. <3
> 
> Let me hear from all of you, I missed you guys :')
> 
> And I'm back on Tumblr to answer questions if you have any!!! (rhhaenyra)


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